


Better Late Than Never

by triedunture



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Bottom George, Crying, Facials, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Man, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaded twentysomething Alex meets a late bloomer: older guy, freshly divorced, who's coming out late in life and doesn't have a clue where to start. Not Alex's type, but he's always had a soft spot for people in need. Couldn't hurt to lend a friendly hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pick-Up

The bar is a cozy one, rainbow flags covering the windows, good pours on mixed drinks, karaoke on Friday evenings. Alex is there pretty frequently for celebratory 'it's the weekend' amaretto and cokes, never more than two. Keeps his mind sharp because you never know when you might need it. It's a good place to pick up guys, especially the kind of guys that Alex likes: young, dumb, full of come. 

He's perched on a barstool, having just ordered his first drink, when his phone buzzes. It's Mulligan, who was supposed to meet Alex at the bar ten minutes ago. The message is an apology. Sorry man, work again, etc., etc. 

Alex scowls at his iPhone. It had been Herc's idea to go out in the first place; Alex had actually been leaning toward a late-night workout at the Y followed by some Netflix and a Seamlessed salad. He texts back, calls Mulligan a complete asshole for ditching him. Decides he'll finish the one drink and then bail. A guy's on the tiny stage at the back of the bar fiddling with the karaoke setup, and Alex doesn't feel like watching strangers belt out Total Eclipse of the Heart if he can't judge the performances with a friend. 

He sips at his drink, lets his gaze wander around the place. It's filling up already, bound to be one of those packed wall-to-wall nights. Alex should feel excited at the prospect. Instead he just feels weary. He smirks into his glass; he's only twenty-six, but the sight of some of these fresh faces in the little bar make him feel ancient sometimes. He's taken to shaving off a few years if someone asks. _Me? I'm twenty-four._ Next year he might take it down to twenty-three if he can get away with it.

He's ruminating on his chances when he spots someone in the corner. Someone who doesn't belong.

Alex doesn't recognize him as one of the regular crowd. He's older than the usual clientele, though it's difficult to say by how many years, what with the shaved head and grim-set mouth. The clothes are throwing Alex off: Ralph Lauren polo, boat shoes, pressed khakis. Alex squints. Jesus, are they pleated? Did this guy just walk out of a grilling brochere from Sears? 

As Alex watches, the man approaches the bar and orders—Alex can barely believe it, his fingers itch for his phone to text someone about this—a glass of wine. It's not that kind of bar. As far as Alex knows, the wine here comes in two flavors: red and white, and they're both poured from jugs. The guy's probably from out of town. Or maybe he's someone's dad? Here to be supportive? But he's not watching the door, so he can't be waiting for someone. Whatever his deal is, Alex can't help but feel a little sorry for him, going back to his corner with his glass of shitty chablis, awkwardly alone and out of place. 

The guy takes a sip from his glass, then stares into it with a twist to his lips that says he realizes his mistake.

He's not Alex's type. Definitely not. But he's so adorably clueless, and Alex has always had a soft spot for people in need. 

Alex picks up his drink, slides off his barstool, and heads over to the man. The guy sees him on the approach, does a sort of double-take, looks over his shoulder as if trying to find the person Alex must be heading toward.

"Hey," Alex says when he's close enough, "first time here?"

A cloud of chagrin passes over the guy's face. "Is it that obvious?" he says.

Alex can't help but laugh, not malicious, just delighted. 

"It's the wine, isn't it?" The guy puts his glass down on the little wooden shelf that's bolted against the wall. "I bet I'm the first customer to order it in ten years. At least, that's what it tastes like."

"You might want to stick to beer," Alex suggests. Then, on impulse, because he can be a nice person when he tries: "Let me buy you one."

The guy looks at him askance, thick eyebrows cocked wildly. "I— Are you sure? I mean. Thank you."

Alex sticks out his hand. "Alexander Hamilton."

It takes a moment for the guy to wrap his hand around Alex's. For all his hesitation, his grip is sure and warm. "George Washington." It's a good handshake, Alex decides. Not too macho, not too soft. He's almost sorry to see it end. 

They take up their positions on two stools at the quieter end of the bar, Alex with his second and last amaretto and coke, George with a new bottle of Amstel Light. He's picking at the label, hunched forward, eyes darting over to Alex every few seconds.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm not usually this nervous."

"Oh?" Alex tries to picture him calm and in control. It's not easy. "What are you nervous about?"

George lets loose a sharp laugh, waves a hand at the karaoke stage, the young men crowding around them, everything. "I guess you could say I'm pretty new to all this."

"Ah." Alex nods in understanding. Older guy, probably just been through a bad breakup. Must've been a long-term thing. "It's tough, getting back out there. Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it." He swirls his straw around in his glass, listening to the ice clatter. His gaze drifts back to George. He's not a bad looking guy. In profile, some might even call him handsome. 

George lifts his bottle nearly to his lips, then says, "Any tips?" before taking a deep swig.

Alex has a thousand. He grabs George by his shoulder and pulls it back until he's sitting straight on his stool. "Project more confidence. In a place like this, you should go for the experienced older man vibe. Not my thing, but hey. Someone will be into that."

George sips at his beer, brow furrowed. He sits a little taller. "I'm not that old."

"I didn't say you were old, just _older_. You're, what?" Alex pulls his punch and purposefully goes for a lower number. Doesn't want to rub salt in the wound. "Forty?"

George grimaces. "Forty-four," he says. 

"All right, forty-four. We can work with that." Alex lays his fingertips lightly against George's forearm, maintaining eye contact. "Flirting isn't hard. You just lean in, make some chitchat, let him know you're interested. Whatever happens, happens."

"Right." George licks his bottom lip. Leans closer, his gaze flicking to Alex's. "Easier said, you know." 

A shrug. "It's not rocket science. Pretend I'm someone you'd like to pick up." He flutters his lashes. "Go ahead. Give me your best line."

George clears his throat. "So what do you do, Alexander?"

Alex groans. "Nobody wants to talk about work. We're here to have fun. The last thing some cute dude is going to be dwelling on is his dead end job at Panera."

"You work at a Panera?" George is looking at him up and down, taking in his suit, his loosened tie, collar unbuttoned. 

"Hell no." He slurps at his drink. "I'm the VP of legal in an investment firm. But that's boring, who cares?" He's just the youngest VP in the history of the company, but he decides not to share that. Might not impress George, who could probably top it if he wanted. His wristwatch is a Patek. Also, he's wearing a wristwatch. Who is this guy? "Come on, tell me something juicy. What are your hobbies? What do you like to do for fun?"

"Well." George scratches the back of his shorn head, looking thoughtful. "I enjoy the outdoors. Hiking especially, although—"

"So you're an exhibitionist?" Alex smirks at his answering sputter. "Naked in the woods, that sort of thing?"

"Hardly," George says. "For one, the bugs are a great deterrent." He makes a face much like he had at his wine.

Alex laughs then. It's not forced, which feels nice. "I'm just trying to get you used to conversation with a flirt."

"I would hope the men I attract won't be that crass." The tone is gruff, but Alex can see a hint of a smile playing around his lips. He's not afraid.

"Crass can be fun. What's wrong with crass? You get to know someone so much better when you're not worried about being polite." 

"Maybe. Do you have any impolite stories to share?" George sips at his beer with his eyebrow raised in challenge. 

"Too many," Alex says, and considers telling him about two weeks ago, when he blew a pre-med student in the leaky little bathroom right in this very bar. Decides against it; wouldn't want to give the guy a heart attack. Up on the karaoke stage, the microphones screech with feedback. A few patrons yelp in pain. Once the noise dies down, Alex leans close. "Hey, it's about to get really loud in here. Use that as an excuse to whisper in some ears, okay? I've got to go."

"You're leaving?" George isn't even trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. "At least let me return the favor." He holds up the bottle of beer that Alex had bought for him. 

"Two's enough for me," Alex says and hops off his stool. He's ready to wave goodbye, wish George luck in his quest, maybe point out some of the regular guys who might be up for it. But that handsome face creases in terrible despondency, and Alex falters. "I could eat, though," he ends up saying instead. "You can buy me a kebab if you want." 

The way George smiles, you'd think Alex had handed him the key to the city. "It would be my pleasure. You could give me some more pointers on flirting." 

"No problem." Alex leads the way out the door, calling over his shoulder. "We might need to talk about your clothes also."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

Alex rolls his eyes ahead so George won't see. "How much time do you have?"

___________________________________

The kebab place is more like a stand than a real restaurant, with its doors rolled open to take advantage of the warm summer night. George gets two lamb, Alex gets one chicken and an order of pita bread to split. They sit on low wooden boxes and eat over a rickety metal table.

Alex nibbles at his skewer and says, "How are your nerves doing?"

George takes his time chewing and swallowing before giving an answer. "Much better." He glances around the quiet little eatery, empty except for the two of them and the woman behind the counter. "This is more my speed. Maybe going to a bar wasn't the best idea." He tears a piece of pita for himself. "Though if I hadn't tried that, I wouldn't have met you, Alexander."

Alex clutches his hand to his chest, gasping sarcastically. "See? Now that's a line! You're a natural. Soon you'll be collecting more phone numbers than you'll know what to do with."

George smiles at that, ducks his head and pops the pita into his mouth. "Maybe I should start with yours."

"Why, Mr. Washington," Alex drawls, "I believe I've created a monster."

It's a joke, but George isn't laughing. "I understand if you'd rather not," he says, concentrating on ripping smaller and smaller pieces from his bread, "but I could use a...a friend. Like I said, this is new territory for me and—" He sighs, tosses his pita bits back onto the paper plate between them. "Sorry. I know I must sound pretty pathetic."

"Hey, no." Alex doesn't think this is the time for touching George's hand, so instead he gives him a companionable bump of their knees under the table. "Look, you're trying to get back into the dating scene; it's not easy, I get it. We've all been there."

"I don't know if you've been here, exactly," George says with a strange kind of delicacy.

Alex ignores him; he doesn't have time for 'I'm the only one who's ever known pain' types. "Why don't we focus on what you're looking for," he says. "What do you want in a guy?"

George sighs. "You make it sound so simple."

"It can be. Got any kinks? Feet or whatever? No judgement, to each their own. That would make it easy to find a hook-up online. They all have groups."

"What? No. I don't know." George sits back, his face a study in bewilderment. "I'm not sure about— That. About anything."

Now it's Alex's turn to lift an eyebrow. "Wow. That ex-boyfriend sure did a number on you, huh?" 

George presses his fingertips into his eye sockets as if trying to ward off a headache. "Alexander, I'm going to be completely honest here."

Faced with the prospect of real emotion, Alex backpedals. Hard. "You don't have to get into it, I know it's probably super personal."

The hands fall away from his face. "My divorce was finalized today," he says.

"Oh." Shit. "I'm sorry. Uh, guess it was an ex-husband who really did a number on you."

George is staring at him like he's the densest thing in the universe, and Alex realizes his mistake a long moment too late. 

"Not a husband?" he says with a wince. George just inclines his head. "I'm an asshole. Some of my best friends are bi and I still forget that—"

"I don't know if I'm bisexual," George interrupts. "Hell, I don't even know if I'm gay. I married young and now it's over and I'm drifting through middle age without a clue, all right? I just—" He shakes his head. "You don't want to hear all this."

He doesn't, but he feels like a huge fucking jerk, so he's obligated to at least lend an ear.

"It— it's fine. Let it out if you want," Alex says. And out it comes in a torrent: growing apart from his wife, the couple's therapy, the big dig into their problems, the things that got unearthed in the process, George questioning his sexuality, his wife not being super thrilled about that, the millions of little failures of the relationship on top of that that finally did them in. George tells him everything. Even pulls out his wallet and shows him the photos of his damn step-kids. Says he doesn't mind so much that Martha got the house, but she got to keep all their friends as well, and now he's alone for the first time in his life. Really alone, no allies in his corner, no partner at his side. 

"It's been, yeah. This year has been hard," George says with a swallow. Stares down at their empty plates.

Alex blinks. "So, wait, you've never been with another man before? Ever?"

George frowns. "That wasn't really my point."

"I know, just— Damn. No wonder you looked like a fish out of water." Alex tries to imagine walking into a bar like that in twenty years. How young would he pretend to be then? He shivers at the thought. "That took some guts, to even try."

The handsome face smoothes into something a little softer, a little more vulnerable. Amazing what a touch of kindness can do, Alex thinks. "Can I tell you something?" George says. "I was terrified. But some kid bought me a beer, so it wasn't a total loss."

Alex huffs a laugh, looks down at the table and uses his stack of thin paper napkins to sweep away some crumbs. "Seriously, though, I wouldn't lead with this stuff if I were you. The divorce, I mean, the fact that you're coming out late in life—if you're coming out at all. It would scare off most guys, you know?" 

The way George looks at him, Alex feels like he just got caught drowning an entire bag of kittens. It hurts to see the pain in those eyes, but what else can he do? Someone's got to look out for him. 

"I think it's important to be upfront about who I am," George says.

"I'm not saying you should hide anything!" Alex holds up his palms defensively. "Just maybe don't volunteer that kind of information when you meet a guy. Let him get to know you first, right? Then the rest won't be so...off-putting."

"So you're put off." 

"Of course I'm not put— Hey, I'm just practice, remember?" Alex balls up his napkin and tosses it onto his plate. "When you get to the real thing, I want you to be ready."

"Ah. Right. You're not real." George folds his arms across his chest and nods, faux-sagely. "You're just a figment, here to help a sad old man get phone numbers."

"Absolutely." Alex sidesteps into something lighter. "Now show your practice figment how you'd ask for a number."

For a long moment, George doesn't say anything and Alex has to make a shooing motion at him to get him talking. A long-suffering sigh, then, "May I have your phone number, Alexander?" 

"I'm sorry, is this homework boring you? Ask for my number and make it _good_ ," Alex says. 

Now they're both smiling again. George leans his elbows on their table and rubs his palms up and down each other. "Alexander, I've had a wonderful time with you tonight. It's been...the best night I've had in months, actually, and you are so gorgeous." (Alex's breath catches. He hopes the heat in his cheeks isn't too noticeable.) "I'd like to see you again. Can I have your number?" Alex stares. He leans back. "How was that?"

For a moment, just silence. Then Alex reaches across the table and claps his hand open and closed in a universal 'gimme' gesture. George silently stares at his hand, then takes his cell phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and places it in Alex's palm. Alex keys in his contact info, not looking up from the screen. 

"Always text. Nobody takes calls anymore and voicemails are the devil," he says. He hits Save and hands the phone back to George. "Wait two days. Don't look desperate."

"Okay." George's eyebrows are high on his forehead as he examines his phone's screen with Alex's name and number splashed across it. "I'll text you then."

"As practice," Alex reminds him, "for the real thing."

"Of course." George's grin is so wide now, Alex finds himself a little transfixed.

He shakes his head to clear it. "We can grab brunch or something before going shopping for your new wardrobe."

"So, like a date," George says as he tucks his phone away.

"God, no. Not like a date. Like friends who go get brunch and buy shirts without little embroidered fucking— I mean, what is this anyway?" He reaches over the table and pokes George in the chest, just over the crest on his polo. George swats his hand off, and Alex laughs. "Don't take it personally, okay? I'm into younger guys, that's all."

"Oh, I get it," George says. "Everyone has their preferences."

"Right, exactly."

"For example, I'm not particularly interested in emotionally immature men with inferiority complexes." George picks up his bottle of water and takes a long, deep sip, his gaze trained on Alex the whole time.

"Excuse me?" Alex balks. That one actually stings. He's kind of proud. "I'll have you know I am immature in a _lot_ more ways than just emotionally." He flicks one of the balled-up napkins in George's direction. It hits him in the shoulder and bounces into his lap. 

They part ways after that. George offers him another handshake as a goodbye, but Alex just ignores it and gives him a little one-armed hug. "Don't forget to text me," he says.

"I won't. Two days?"

Alex gives him a nod, a thumbs up, and walks in the opposite direction down the street. 

He's not even a block away when his phone pings with a message: _I couldn't wait. Good thing it's only practice, right?_

"Fucking goofball," he mutters at the screen, but he can feel the smile stretching across his face.


	2. The Make-Over

When Alex arrives at brunch, George is already there holding down a hightop table, a bloody Mary at his elbow. He's dressed a little better than the other day but not by much: heather gray pocket tee tucked into jeans, Adidas sport sandals. He's got a pen in one hand and the Sunday crossword folded in front of him. There's a moment where he looks up to see Alex approach and his eyes go warm from across the room. 

"Hey," he says as Alex slides into his seat. "Hope you don't mind. I started without you."

"I figured you'd be the punctual type." Alex cocks his head to try and read the upside-down crossword. "In real life, hooray, because this place is a madhouse on Sundays." It's true; every table in the place is full and there's a handful of hungry, thwarted people milling around the front door waiting for a spot to open up. "In dating life, maybe play it cool and show up, like, six minutes late."

"Six minutes? Is this another one of your scientifically sound rules?" 

"It's served me well so far."

"Then I'll take it under consideration." George signals the passing waiter, and Alex rattles off his usual order: eggs Benedict with spinach instead of bacon, one mimosa, and no thanks to the offer of a bottomless brunch for just nineteen dollars extra. "Two's my limit," he says on autopilot. The waiter nods and looks to George, who orders the same but with the bacon. When the guy hurries off, George rests his chin on his fist and regards Alex thoughtfully.

"I don't mean to pry," he says, "but is there a reason you never drink very much?"

"Oh, you know." Alex shrugs, shakes his napkin out on his lap. "Fewer empty calories; saves me money...." The words are hollow, and at George's piercing gaze, Alex sighs and makes his small confession. "I have a lot of other indulgences; seems smart to avoid mixing them with alcohol." He doesn't want to tell George about how it was when he first moved to the city when he was younger and wilder, how many nights he had liquid dinners. About that one time, blacking out and waking up on the floor of some stranger's bathroom, not remembering what he'd done or who he'd potentially done it with, calling Mulligan in a panic. Herc's sleepy voice on the other end of the line: _Calm down, where are you? Can you see the street signs?_

It had all worked out in the end, of course. He'd arrived home in one piece. There had been no injuries beyond the mysterious bruise on his leg that John had told him was a result of his own stupidity in falling down the stairs at the club. Still, so embarrassing. And scary. So, yeah, never again, he'd decided. Alexander Hamilton wouldn't let anyone get the upper hand on him if he could help it. 

All stuff that George doesn't need to know. 

"Huh." George sits back in his chair. "That's very responsible of you. I'm impressed." 

_You wouldn't be if you knew how I got there_ , Alex thinks, but holds his tongue. Instead he snatches the crossword from its place on George's side of the table and looks it over. "Need help with this? I'm pretty good with words."

George looks amused, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "If you'd like." 

"Let's see, six across, 'in pursuit of.' Oh, happiness. Wait. Five letters? In pursuit of...happy?" Alex scowls at the newspaper. "That can't be right." He looks at the clue for six down. It's a legal clue, which helps. He grabs the pen and scratches 'attest' into the boxes. But happy doesn't start with an A, a fact that angers Alex to no end. He chews on the pen cap while he mulls it over.

George clears his throat. "It's not a fill-in-the-blank."

Alex's gaze darts back to him. "What?"

"You're not looking for a word to complete the phrase. There would be a blank in the clue if they wanted that. You're supposed to think of a synonym. It's 'after.' It means the same thing as 'in pursuit of.'" 

Alex looks down at the puzzle, then back up at George. "Crosswords are for retirees anyway," he huffs, and tosses the newspaper back across the table. 

George laughs, that deep-throated, head thrown back kind of laughter. Alex doesn't think it was particularly funny, and sips pointedly at the mimosa the waiter delivers just at that moment.

"Let me guess," George says when he calms enough to speak again. "You're the kind of person who knocks over the Monopoly board if you aren't winning."

Alex rolls his eyes. "Oh please, everyone's done that at least once."

"I never have."

"You're a fucking liar, then."

"I don't lie," George says. The grin on his face is at odds with his eyes all of a sudden, which are heavy and pinched with sadness. "That is, I try my best not to." 

Alex isn't sure what he means. Is he talking about his marriage? The night they first met and he called Alex gorgeous? Luckily their food arrives then. They eat while Alex chatters about shopping and all the stuff he's excited to have George try on. 

"I'm thinking a lot of black. You know, classic. Slimming," he says and eats a forkful of egg. 

George raises an eyebrow. "I need to be slimmed?" 

"Don't get offended. I just mean it makes for a good silhouette. My best friend does menswear; he'd tell you the same thing. Although—" Alex eyes George over their plates. "Do you have a gym membership?" 

George shrugs with one shoulder. "I do, but I probably only get in there every other week or so. Normally I just go for a jog around the neighborhood if I can fit it in."

Alex withholds his gasp but it's a near thing. "You don't have a workout schedule?"

"Not really."

"We'll have to fix that. Trust me, you need one." George looks like he's working up to an indignant lecture, holding up a finger and opening his mouth, so Alex beats him to it, his own finger in the air. "Point A, no, I'm not saying you're out of shape. Point B, gyms are great for meeting people. Point C, regular activity is consistently shown to boost your mood. Point D, a good mood makes you more attractive. That's just science." Having said his piece, he shovels half an English muffin into his mouth and chews.

"Well." George blinks. "You've thought of everything." 

Alex swallows. "So that means you'll come work out with me later this week?"

"Sure," George says. "It's a date." 

Alex stabs his fork in his direction. "Not a date."

"Right. Not a date. It's a plan." 

It's hard to tell whether George is being serious or sarcastic, so Alex just glares at him. They finish their meal, bicker over the check until they agree that George can pay and Alex will leave the tip—"But I've got next!"—and then it's off to the races. Alex has a whole map in his head with about half a dozen stores he wants to hit, but the minute they step into the first shop and he sees the look of growing unease on George's face, he edits it down to no more than four. 

"Come on, it's not so bad. You're getting new duds, what's there to complain about?" Alex asks as he plucks items from the racks and stacks them in George's arms.

"I'm not very tuned into fashion." George grimaces at the price tag of a soft, black henley that Alex adds to the pile. "Normally I wear what I buy until it disintegrates." 

"You don't say," Alex deadpans, and gives George's jeans a once-over. The wash is all wrong and the cut screams 2002. "Look, just try on a few things—"

"A _few_?" George frowns at the dozen or so pieces of clothing he's carrying.

"—and if you don't like them, don't get them. Jesus, it's shopping, not a lifelong commitment." 

Alex herds him into a dressing room, but before he can step in behind him, George closes the door in his face with a terse, "I'll come out to model for you; there's not enough room in here."

"Oh, just like your ass, what with the stick," Alex mutters to himself.

The sound of fabric swishing and hitting the floor floats from the tiny dressing room. "I heard that."

"I stand by it." Alex waits, foot tapping, arms crossed over his chest. "What's taking so long? Show me outfit number one."

There's a long pause from behind the dressing room door, then George says, "I think everything is about a size too small."

"I'll be the judge of that. Let me see."

The door creaks open and George stands there, hand on the doorknob as if he might slam the thing shut at any moment. He's wearing the last three things Alex had picked out: thin white V-neck, dark jeans, casual black military jacket. Everything's fitted to George's body, which, Alex can objectively say, is not bad. Built, but not jacked. A little softness around the pecs and belly. Approachable, is maybe the word he's looking for. Comfy.

Alex is suddenly struck by an idea. "Give me your phone. I want to take a picture."

Distracted as he is, George unlocks the screen and hands it over, then walks over to the three-way mirror at the end of the hallway, turning this way and that to view his reflection from all angles. "It's not too tight?"

"Are you kidding? You look great. Really great, actually." 

"You think so?" George turns to smile in Alex's direction, his eyes lit up like stars. Alex takes the photo at just the right moment, capturing that face at a perfect angle.

George blinks. "What's that for?"

"Your profile picture." Alex taps around the phone, looking for the app store. Of course George would use Android. "I'm downloading Grindr for you."

"What? No!" He makes a lunge for the phone but Alex is too quick, pivoting away while still typing. "Alexander, I'm serious. I'm not putting my face on a hookup app!" 

"Don't be such a baby. Do you want to meet guys or not?" 

"Not this way! It's so...so… _sleazy_." 

"I'm on Grindr. Do you think I'm sleazy?"

"That's not what I meant." George sighs, slumps. Looks off to the side. "I just don't think I can play the field like that. I was faithful to the same person for nearly twenty years. It's not like I can wake up one day and—" He shakes his head and falls silent. 

Feeling like a total asshole in front of George is starting to be the norm, Alex realizes. He takes a small gamble and reaches out, rests his hand on George's shoulder. "Hey, if it's not your thing, it's not your thing. You don't have to sign up for it. Just— Don't expect the first guy you connect with to be your next twenty years, okay? That's a lot of pressure. For you and for every eligible man on earth. Sometimes it's enough to just have some fun."

George seems to consider this, his jaw taking on a strange, hard cast. He meets Alex's eyes and nods. "You're right. I can't just sit around and hope for—" He swallows. "For a perfect match." 

There's that spectre of real feelings again. Alex coughs into his fist and averts his gaze. "Yeah, probably not a good idea."

George stands straighter as if he's come to a decision. "I'll give it a try. But you'll have to help me get the hang of it. And make sure I don't come off as some desperate old creep." 

"That won't take too much effort. Believe me, compared to some guys on there, you're a saint." Alex plucks at the neckline of George's shirt, tweaks the fall of the jacket's collar. "And the clothes look great. I wasn't messing with you about that."

"Still think it's a little tight." George twists his head around to peek at his own butt, which is nicely encased in the new jeans. "Shouldn't I get a size up?"

"Absolutely not," Alex says. "Future Grindr users will thank me. Now try on outfit number two."

They leave that store and a few others loaded down with shopping bags, more clothes (and more expense) than Alex could ever dream of, what with his student loans. He likes the feel of all the different handles in his palm: soft ribbon for one, canvas for another, twisted paper for a third. He carries George's phone in his other hand, busily setting up his Grindr profile. 

"So what age range are you interested in?" he asks, trying for a light tone.

George considers this as he hefts his own burden of shopping bags. "I don't want anyone to think I'm looking for, you know, some kind of boy-toy. Maybe five years older or younger than I am? Is that a good limit?" 

"Ten years is a big enough window." Alex glances at the phone screen. "Let's see here. Height?"

"Six-two." 

"Weight?" 

"Why do I need to include my weight?"

"We live in an unfair world, George. Weight?"

"...One ninety?" 

Alex makes a loud buzzer noise. "So much for never lying."

"Okay, fine. Jesus. It's probably more like two-thirty." 

"Don't be angry about it. Wish I was as built as you." Then maybe fewer guys would think he's a helpless twink. Alex types in the numbers. "Hm. I'm going to put you down for 'clean-cut' and— What do you think? 'Daddy' or 'geek?' Or both?" 

George shoots him an unimpressed look, and Alex grins. 

"Just clean-cut then," Alex says, and dashes off a quick bio. New to the city, hoping to make friends and have some fun, just a big softie, hit me up if you love hiking and crossword puzzles, blah blah blah, open to new ideas but not looking for anything too wild, age appropriate guys only please. "Hopefully this will keep any weirdos at bay." He taps the button to create the profile and holds out George's cell phone, and George takes it with a nod. 

"You get a lot of weirdos messaging you?" George asks, pocketing his phone. 

Alex waggles his head. "A couple. Usually white guys looking for Latino heat or whatever." He makes a jerking off motion with his now-free hand. "I didn't immigrate here to deal with that shit."

A thoughtful look crosses George's face. "Did you come here as a child or…?"

"In my teens." He pivots the conversation yet again. His dead mom and his deadbeat dad aren't exactly topics he wants to cover right now. "I was born in the Caribbean. Small place near the Virgin Islands, you probably never heard of it." 

"Oh, Nevis? Saint Kitts?" George says. 

Alex pauses right there in the middle of the sidewalk. A feather could knock him down at the moment, he's pretty sure. "How do you know about Nevis?" 

George stops with him. "Geography is sort of a hobby of mine. I have a small collection of antique maps, so—" 

Alex starts ahead again. "God, you're such a dork." 

He can hear George one step behind him. "Soon to be a well-dressed dork." 

It feels weird, smiling despite himself. Alex decides not to think about it too much. He totes the shopping bags to George's building, a modern condo that towers high above everything around it. 

"Come on up," George says as the doorman holds the door for him. "I'll break my back trying to carry all this myself." 

Alex gives the doorman a weak smile before whispering to George out of the corner of his mouth. "I guess whatever you do for work pays pretty well."

"I thought talking about work was boring," George drawls. Then, with a glance at Alex, he adds, "I'm a consultant. I do all right." 

"A consultant, huh? So...bullshit-dealer?"

George bites back a laugh but only gets about half of it. "Sometimes." 

The elevator bears them up to the twenty-fourth floor. Alex can't stop staring down the length of the sleek hallway, the spotless carpets, the unchipped paint. "Is that central air I feel?" he asks.

"Yeah. New building," George says, and keys open his door. 

The place isn't palatial by any means, but it's tidy and well-appointed. The furnishings are all black leather and cool chrome, which surprises Alex. It looks more like an apartment he'd choose; George had struck him as more the shabby chic type. 

"Nice," is all he offers. 

George busies himself with locking up behind them. "Thanks. The furniture came with the place. I just needed to move in quick." He glances around the main room, a sort of living space that flows into the open kitchen. "It's a little soulless if you ask me, but it does the job." 

Alex places his shopping bags on the concrete floor by the sofa and cranes his neck to look around more thoroughly; the bedroom must be further down the hallway. Curiosity gnaws at him; does George's room have any personal touches at all? There's not a photo or a framed diploma to be seen, just generic abstract art. A metallic swirly thing tacked to the wall in the kitchen, a canvas caked in black and green paint in the living room. A decorative bowl for keys or whatever on a little stand by the front door.

"Well," he says when he's finished his inspection. He perches his hands on his hips.

George hovers in the entryway, seemingly at a loss when it comes to guests. Finally he snaps out of it. "So do you want to show me how to use this app?" He pulls his cell from his pocket.

"Sure, yeah, of course. Give it here and I'll—" Alex begins, but his phone beeps before he can finish. It's a message from Lafayette: _We're at the park, where are you?_

"Oh fuck." He checks the time. How has the day flown by so quickly? The late afternoon picnic to celebrate John's birthday had been on his calendar for weeks and he'd completely blanked. "I'm supposed to be at this thing with some friends of mine. I'm sorry, I—" He looks up and sees that face again: totally disappointed and trying desperately to hide it. Alex scrambles for something that will make it go away. "Do you want to come?" he blurts out. 

George brightens. "To meet your friends? I'd like that." 

"It's stupid, we're just going to hang out in the park." 

"I don't mind. If you're sure it's all right that I tag along?"

"I invited you, didn't I?"

George picks up one of the shopping bags, the one from John Varvatos. "Do I have time to change? I'll be quick."

Alex relaxes a fraction. Now he doesn't have to figure out a tactful way to suggest the very thing. "Yeah, go ahead." He replies to Laf while George steps down the hall to—presumably—his bedroom. _Got held up, be there in 20._ He gives his follow-up text some thought before tapping it out: _Bringing a friend. Older guy named George, I'm helping him with a few things._

Laf texts back an emoji of water droplets followed by a question mark. Alex snorts. 

_Hell no. And no flirting, please. He's sensitive._

Seems like a good way to dance around the fact of George's divorce and all the rest. The idea of these two worlds colliding—his friends and George—settles into his mind, and it's pretty surreal. Mulligan's the oldest of them at twenty-nine, and he can't imagine what George could have in common with him, let alone John, Lafayette, or Adrienne. So this could be a disaster, he thinks.

Then George comes out of the bedroom dressed in the striped tank and preppy chino shorts Alex had picked out for him, and all Alex can think is _arms! thighs!_ He'd seen the same sight in the dressing room earlier, of course, but the size and sheer solidness of George seem to be affecting him differently now. Probably just the good light in the apartment, he reasons. 

George gives him a strange look—stop staring, Alex tells himself—as he slips his wallet into his back pocket. "Good?"

"It's okay," Alex says with an air of cool indifference. 

As they wait for the elevator to take them back downstairs, George takes out his cell and pulls up Grindr. "Oh, look at that. Alex is less than ten meters away. Nice photo." 

"Thanks. I've been told I look good in green," Alex says. 

George taps once and lets out a bark of laughter. "Okay, seriously?" He holds up the phone, showing Alex's own profile. "I'm supposed to believe you're six feet tall?" 

Heat rushes into Alex's cheeks unbidden. "I'm close enough." 

"You're five-eight if you're an inch." 

"Five-ten, you monster!" 

"You're like one of those little yappy dogs that thinks it's a big dog."

"I _am_ a big dog," Alex insists. "You just can't see it because you're a fucking mountain."

"And you gave me so much shit about my weight. For shame, Alexander." The glint in George's eye is good-natured, so Alex doesn't keep up the fight. He lets George usher him into the elevator when it comes. 

The short walk to the park provides an opportunity for a crash course in Alex's small group of friends. "It's John's birthday, he'll be the little guy with the big smile," he tells George as they make their way down the street. "There will be lots of hugs, just so you know."

"Got it. John. And how do you know him?" George asks. 

"Oh, we used to date. It was a couple years ago." Alex waves a hand through the air. "But we kept in touch and I ended up introducing him to Mulligan. Now they're an item." At George's questioning frown, Alex elaborates. "I'm totally fine with it. Mulligan's my best friend, the first roommate I had when I moved here. I would've never survived the city if it weren't for him. And John's a sweet guy; they deserve each other." 

"Is that usual for you? To keep in touch with your exes?" 

"Just the good ones. So that's Mulligan and John. Then there's Lafayette. He'll be there with his girlfriend, Adrienne."

George raises an eyebrow. "A straight couple? What a rich tapestry."

Alex laughs. "Adrienne is straight, but Lafayette is definitely not. He and I, uh, had a thing too back in the day." Hm, has he slept with all his friends? He thinks for a long moment. "Mulligan and I never fucked, but we jerked off together once. That was a fun party." 

"It's a good thing I'm not a prude," George says with a grin, "or else I might faint at the idea of such an incestuous bunch." 

"That's those damn millennials for ya. How dare we foster lasting friendships with people we've smooched!" 

They reach the park and go through the dance of finding Alex's friends in the crowd. A flurry of texts (where you at; to the left of the gate; east or west side of the pond?; I'm not a fucking compass, Alex; I'm waving, can you see me?; no I'm standing and waving now, can you see me?; no WAIT yes) and then Alex and George finally amble over the grass to where Mulligan has spread a huge picnic blanket in the shade of a tree. Nervousness begins to overtake Alex as he sees the gang eyeing George. How is he going to explain why he's now suddenly friends with a fortysomething dude? And how will everyone react when George inevitably says something nerdy and embarrassing? 

Too late to back out now. John is on his feet first, rushing forward to greet Alex in Spanish, kissing him on both cheeks. Alex keeps to their shared tongue to wish him a happy birthday, then turns to accept Adrienne's and Lafayette's kisses. He switches to French then, telling her how gorgeous her sundress is, apologizing for his lateness. Mulligan gets a fist bump and a shared nod, and then Alex has nothing left to do but gesture to George, who's waiting sedately at the edge of the picnic blanket. 

"Everyone, this is George," he says in English. 

George is not prepared. He sticks out his hand, but Lafayette grabs him by the shoulders and places two big smackers on his cheeks. Adrienne is only a little more formal, just one kiss at the corner of his mouth, and even John gets in on the action. By the time Mulligan's done wrapping him up in his signature bear hug, George looks a little dazed. 

"Thank you," he says to the assembled party. Then, to John, "Happy birthday." 

"Come, we have wine," Adrienne says in her thick accent. "There is nothing like wine in the grass on a summer day, no?" 

They settle in, sprawled in all different directions on the blanket. Adrienne pours the prosecco from its brown bag into discreet water bottles and passes them around. Lafayette strikes up a conversation with George, asking him some innocuous questions about what neighborhood he lives in, when he arrived in the city, all the usual stuff. Alex listens for any hint of overstepping of boundaries, but then John catches his attention with a tap to his shoulder. 

"Does he speak only English?" he asks in Spanish. 

"Yes, I think so," Alex says. 

"Then tell me everything," John gushes. "Details, please."

"He's sitting right there! Don't gossip in front of him." A quick glance to make sure George is still deep in conversation with Laf, which he is. Alex scoffs, then adds. "Besides, there's nothing to tell. It's not like that. I'm just his, ah, life coach. Sort of." 

"So he's single?" John asks.

"Why? Is Mulligan not enough for you lately?" 

At the sound of his name, and even with his limited Spanish, Herc's head pops up from where it had been pillowed on his arms. "Hey! I'm plenty and my baby knows it." 

John and Mulligan share what is probably the sappiest look in history while they lace their fingers together. Alex makes a face. A clearing of a throat, and George sidles into their knot of conversation to ask John how he and Herc met. Even though he knows damn well how they met already. Still, John relates the story with enthusiasm, and while he holds George's attention, Lafayette scoots closer to Alex to whisper in his ear. 

"He is darling," he says in French. "Where did you find him?"

"I didn't find him anywhere. He's just a guy. And he's not darling. What's so darling about him?"

Laf absolutely titters. "You are blushing, my friend."

"I am not. It's hot out, that's all." Alex takes a long pull from his water bottle of wine. It goes down refreshing and cool. 

George, meanwhile, seems to be explaining something about taxes to John, who sits in rapt attention. It boggles the mind. What sort of world did he wake up in, Alex wonders. 

A ping from his phone interrupts George in mid-sentence, and he digs it out of his pocket. A frown mars his lips as he studies the screen. 

"Is everything okay?" Alex asks. 

"Yeah, I think so. I just got a notification from, um, that app you downloaded for me." 

"Oh, you're on Grindr?" Lafayette whips out his own phone. "Ah, yes! Very nice." He shows Adrienne, who raises two impressed eyebrows at George's profile picture and makes an O with her thumb and forefinger. 

"Ignore them," Alex orders. "Let me see." He takes the phone from George and clicks on the new message. 

"Well?" Mulligan demands. "Don't keep us in suspense. Show us Georgie's new suitor." 

Alex bites his lip as he examines the screen. The guy is very, very good-looking. And he looks to be about George's age. His message is friendly, warm, not at all pushy. A few typos, but nobody's perfect. He clicks on the guy's profile. A lump grows in his throat as he reads: 

Friedrich. Six-one. Daddy. Down for whatever. And I do mean _whatever_.


	3. The Flood

The gym is packed with the after-work crowd, so much so that Alex has to stand to the side in the lobby to let the swarm of people pass by while he checks his messages. He's got a couple of texts from guys he's been flirting with off and on, a ping from someone new on Grindr, no less than three Facebook messages, but nothing from George. It's 6:30; he should be here by now. Maybe he got held up at the office, Alex thinks. Maybe he decided not to work out after all. 

Maybe he got sidetracked by Friedrich. 

"Hey." Alex nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns to find George already dressed in workout clothes, albeit shabby ones: scuffed white sneakers, baggy basketball shorts, a grimy tee with a loose thread coming off the sleeve. "Am I late? I stopped at home to change." 

"Right on time, as always." He wants to ask George about his date with the Friedrich guy. He wants to get the entire story. But he doesn't want to pester, so he just slings the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder as they head toward the men's locker room. "Just curious: why the scrubby outfit?"

"What's wrong with it?" George tugs at the hem of his shirt. "They're gym clothes. They're going to be soaked with sweat in a few minutes anyway."

"I know you're new to the whole concept of being single," Alex says as they enter the locker room, "but there's this unspoken rule that you should try to look your best at all times. You never know when you might run into someone hot." He waves to the guy at the towel service desk, finds an empty locker, then chucks his bag on the bench and starts unbuttoning his Oxford shirt. "Plus it gives you confidence. Like you're ready for anything." He looks over at George and sees that he's standing with his back to Alex, pointedly looking at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind him. 

He wants to tell him it's a locker room and he doesn't care if George catches a glimpse of his bare ass; it's a nice ass, he's worked hard on it, let the world enjoy it, is his feeling. But it's such an old-fashioned, gentlemanly move—so _George_ —that Alex decides to allow it. He shrugs out of his shirt and starts on his belt buckle. 

"I'm all for making an effort," George tells the ceiling. "I just think it's useless to primp before a workout." 

"Oh my god. It's not about primping." Alex pulls on his Underarmor and bike shorts with brisk motions. "It's literally— Okay, hand me your shirt." 

"What?" George turns then, looking relieved to find Alex dressed and lacing up his running shoes. "Why do you need my shirt?" 

"Trust me." His hand is out, waiting. "I'm on your side. I just want what's best for you."

George pulls his shirt over his head and hands it over, standing there bare-chested but not fidgety or self-conscious like Alex expected. Alex takes the shirt with a nod and heads to the towel service desk. "Hey Peter?" he asks. "Do you have any scissors?"

"Alex—" George's voice is a warning that Alex ignores. 

Peter hands over the scissors with little fanfare. Alex takes them, folds the shirt vertically in half on the desk's surface, and cuts off both sleeves in three big snips. "There." He returns the scissors and shakes out the shirt, now transformed into a muscle tank. "Much better."

He tosses it in George's direction. George catches it one-handed against his chest and sighs. "Well, that was completely childish and unnecessary." 

"You know what's really unnecessary? Keeping those pipes under wraps." Alex brushes by him, giving his right bicep a quick squeeze as he does so. "Come on, race you on the treadmill. First one to get to a mile has to buy smoothies later." 

George, for all his grumbling, looks pretty good in the improved shirt. So good, Alex almost lets him win their race. Almost.

After that little warm-up, they take turns bending over the water fountain and gulping down cold mouthfuls. Alex is drinking when George leans against the wall next to the fountain and, still breathing hard, says, "So you haven't asked how my date went."

"Your date?" Alex can feign ignorance pretty easily, if he cares to. "Oh, right, with Friedrich. I forgot you had that lined up."

"Really?" Two thick eyebrows arch high on a lined forehead. "Because you texted me six times during my date to ask how it was going."

"What? No. Six—? I don't think so," Alex says, voice deep with skepticism. 

George takes his phone from the pocket of his basketball shorts and starts scrolling. "Quarter after five: 'good luck tonight, have fun.' Five-twenty: 'don't forget to smile.' Six-ten: 'please don't talk about boring stuff.' Six-eleven: 'if he turns out to be a jerk, pretend this text is some emergency and leave, okay?' Twenty till seven—" 

"All right, okay, I get it." Alex feels his face flushing and hopes it looks natural under all the sweat. "I guess I was just worried about you. It was your first real date, sort of." He shifts from foot to foot. "So? How was it?"

George takes another drink from the water fountain before he answers. "It was fine."

"Fine," Alex says flatly. He waits for another beat in silence. "And?" 

"And…" George shrugs, stands up straight and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Friedrich was nice. We have a lot in common." 

"Yeah? What happened? Did you just get coffee? That was the plan, right?" 

"We got coffee," George confirms. 

"This is like getting blood from a stone!" Alex throws his hands up in the air. "Help me out here, asshole. Did you go somewhere afterwards? Did he make a pass at you? Was there a goodnight kiss? Are you seeing him again? Quit withholding."

"We made plans for next Friday," George says, sidestepping the other questions and Alex himself as he heads for the free weight racks. Alex follows at his heels. "I have two tickets to the bossa nova retrospective and I've been looking for someone to go with." 

"Well, I could've gone with you if you wanted," Alex says without thinking. 

George stops and turns to peer quizzically at him. "You like bossa nova?"

"Sure. Yeah. I like all of the...stuff." Alex watches George's eyes go from surprised to exasperated, and he knows it's better to come clean. "Okay, I actually don't know what that is. Is it, like, mariachi music?" 

George shakes his head, but he's smiling as he picks up a set of dumbbells. "Anyway, Friedrich is also a fan so he was thrilled that I offered. As for the rest of your probing questions," he shoots Alex a look that's bordering on coy, the fucker, "I don't kiss and tell."

"So there was a kiss?"

"It's a figure of speech, Alex."

"So there _wasn't_ a kiss?" 

George hefts the weights in a series of passable bicep curls. "Why does it matter? I had a good time; isn't that all you need to know?"

"Maybe you haven't noticed," Alex says, "but I've become somewhat responsible for your introduction into the world of men who want men. I just want to make sure you're on the right track, that's all." He takes ownership of a nearby bench and starts doing tricep dips.

Ten reps, then George places his dumbbells on the floor by his feet. He pants a little, stretches his arm by folding it into a triangle behind his neck and pulling on his elbow. "With you as a mentor, how can I go wrong?"

He's smiling, so Alex smiles back. George returns to his weights. Alex does tricep dips until his arms burn with fire. 

After a brutal session, George makes good on their bet and offers to buy some post-workout smoothies. They're in line to order their protein shakes when George's phone pings. He checks the message, smiles to himself. Shakes his head while typing. Alex frowns and stands on his tiptoes to try and peek at the screen, but George deftly turns to block him with his shoulder.

"Do you have to be so nosy?" George drawls. 

"You made a weird face. I can't be concerned?" He pretends to study the menu above the counter intently instead of trying again. "Is it Friedrich?"

"No, it's from Lafayette." 

"Lafayette? You and Lafayette are texting? When did that happen?" 

"Since the picnic. John too. They had some questions about setting up their 401K's so I helped them out. Boring old people stuff," George says. He finishes his text and tucks his phone back in his pocket. "Now Laf wants to repay the favor by setting me up with some co-worker of his."

"Co-worker? What co-worker?" Alex demands, feeling like a parrot. He doesn't like the sound of this one bit. Lafayette's office is one of those too-cool-for-suits startups where everyone is painfully hip and drinks raw apple cider vinegar when it gets chilly.

"This co-worker." George takes out his phone again with only a mildly irritated huff and shows Alex the photo he'd been texted. "His name's Tench."

"Tilghman?" He knows him slightly from Lafayette's cocktail parties. Alex squints at the photo. It's a really good one. Soulful brown eyes, neatly trimmed beard, undercut. Looks like he knows how to fold a pocket square. "He's a little younger than what you're interested in, isn't he?"

"Well, he's thirty-six. I know I said five years younger was my limit but," he shrugs, "maybe I shouldn't have such hard and fast rules. John doesn't think the age difference would be too bad."

"Oh, he doesn't, does he?" Alex is going to have some words with Laurens very soon. "How come you haven't asked me about my opinion on all of this? Was it some kind of secret?"

"No, no secret. I just didn't want you to have to deal with every little thing of mine. Especially since John and Lafayette wanted to help. It takes a village, etcetera." They reach the front of the smoothie line, and George orders for them both. Alex simmers while they wait for their drinks, unsure of what bothers him more: that his friends have muscled in on his charity case, or that George felt he needed the extra muscle at all. But then George turns to him and says in a soft voice, "I never thought I'd have any support at all, going through this. Now there's you and the boys and Adrienne and— It means a lot to me. Thank you."

Alex looks away, feeling about twelve inches tall for being so petty. "Don't mention it. Whatever." He clears his throat as he accepts their cups from the counter lady. "So are you going to let Laf set you up with this guy?"

"Yeah, why not? I just told him I'm free next Saturday." 

"Wow, two dates in one weekend." Alex sips at his smoothie as they walk out of the shop, handing George his own drink. "You're a fast one, grasshopper."

"Just making up for lost time," George says with a grin. Alex's building is close, so George walks him home before taking off with a parting wave.

___________________________________

The week goes by, but it's a slow one that just drags on and on. Alex spends most of Tuesday thinking it's Wednesday and is disappointed to find he's mistaken. The usual string of messages from potential lays barely distract him from the slog. On Friday night, George is at his bossa nova date, so Alex meets up with a guy he's been flirting with. He gets blown in the pretty boy's artist loft that his parents have surely bankrolled, but the orgasm is totally mediocre. Flat and uninteresting, nothing short of a letdown. Definitely not worth the effort he'd put in to get it.

He tells Pretty Boy he'll text him, but he won't.

By the time Saturday rolls around, Alex is too tired to go out. He ignores a few messages from past hookups and instead orders Indian delivery and binge-watches a Netflix original. When the last bite of naan is gone, Alex glances at the clock. George is probably meeting Tench soon. He hopes George plans on wearing the henley with the tight jeans. His fingers find his phone amid the sofa cushions, ready to shoot off a message with just that suggestion, but then he remembers how George had teased him about his last string of texts. He tosses the phone on the coffee table where he can't reach it without getting up. Tries to focus on the show he's watching. 

Nothing seems to be capturing his attention, though, and Alex finds himself dozing in spurts. He considers just going to bed early, but it seems pretty pathetic to call it a night before nine on a Saturday. Besides, he thinks as his eyes grow heavier, he should stay awake in case George wants to talk after his date. A little post-mortem texting. Alex yawns and decides to rest his eyes just for a second. The TV drones on in the background as he drifts. 

The dripping sound starts faintly, and in his half-sleep, Alex thinks it's probably the Netflix show. Maybe just part of his almost-dream. But then the drip-drip-drip becomes a trickle, becomes a steady stream, becomes a gushing roar of water. Alex opens his eyes to see water creeping across the floor of his tiny studio apartment, coming from the bathroom. 

A squeaked curse, and Alex bolts off the couch. He runs into the bathroom and turns on the lights. 

There's water pouring from the light fixture, which cannot be good, as well as several cracks in the ceiling. Wet chunks of plaster are plopping down at his feet. It's like a nightmare. 

Alex slams his hand on the light switch to turn it off because he's pretty sure water and electricity do not mix. Then he runs back to the coffee table to grab his phone. 

Think, he orders his brain. Think! 

The super. That's just sensible. He looks up the guy's number in his contacts and dials. It goes straight to voicemail. _Hey, you've reached Bill, I'm unavailable to take your call—_ By the time the beep comes, Alex is ready to tear out his hair. He leaves the most frantic message in the history of voicemails, then hangs up and dials Mulligan because he always knows what to do.

"Come on, come on," he chants as it rings. Water is now puddling around his toes, icy cold. He steps up onto the sofa and watches the rising tide helplessly. 

Herc answers on the fifth ring with a cheery, "Hey, what's up?" Alex tells him what's up. 

"My apartment's flooding! It's coming in from the ceiling. My super's AWOL. What do I do?" 

Mulligan, as usual, is the picture of calm. "All right, go upstairs and knock on the door of the apartment above yours. Their tub's probably overflowed; that happened to me a couple years back, remember? They need to shut off their water." 

"Okay, okay. Going upstairs." Alex doesn't bother with his shoes or locking the door behind him, just rushes out into the hallway and up one flight. He keeps babbling into the phone as he goes. "Stay on the line. I'm going up."

"I'm here," Mulligan says, and then there's a muffled sound like he's covered the receiver with his hand to say something to someone else. Probably John, the rational part of Alex's mind realizes. 

Apartment 6F is the one directly above Alex's in their little walk-up building. The sound of running water is audible even in the hallway outside. He pounds on the door with all his might. No answer. He bangs again. Nothing. He tries the doorknob but it's locked tight.

"No one's home," Alex shouts into the phone. "No one's coming to the door! Oh my god, why is this happening?"

"I don't know. Maybe they fell asleep in the bath?"

"Holy shit," Alex whispers, "what if they're dead?"

"They're not dead. No one's dead."

Alex paces in a tight circle and then knocks on the door once more. It's hopeless, nothing happens. He finally breaks. "Herc, can you come over? I'm freaking out here." 

"Uh, John and I are gone for the weekend, remember? I'm not in town." 

Shit! He squeezes his eyes shut. "The bed and breakfast. I forgot." So not only is Alex watching everything he owns get destroyed by water (again), but he's interrupting his best friend's romantic getaway. Perfect. Great. 

"Have you tried Lafayette?" Mulligan asks. 

"No," Alex says. He's on the verge of tears, and he's ashamed of it. 

"Try your super again. Then call Laf." 

"Okay. I will."

"It'll be okay."

"I got to go." Alex hangs up. Calls the super again, gets voicemail again. Calls Lafayette. It just rings and rings. Right, he and Adrienne are at that concert down on the beach, Alex remembers. Probably can't hear anything besides the music. He slams his fist into the door of 6F one last time, nearly busting his knuckles open before running back downstairs to his apartment. 

The water's almost to the far wall now. Jesus. Panic rises in his throat. His hand tightens around his phone.

He shouldn't. It's a bad idea. 

He doesn't care. 

He calls George. 

Four rings before the answer. "Alexander?" George's voice sounds surprised, a little playful. Alex can hear the sounds of a restaurant in the background, utensils clinking against plates, dinnertime conversation. "I thought nobody calls anymore."

"I'm sorry, I know you're on a date," Alex says in a rush, "but this is an emergency and I didn't know what else to do." The whole story comes pouring out, including Alex's rudimentary knowledge of electrical work, and the possibility of a corpse upstairs, and his absent landlord, and the bed and breakfast, and Laf's concert, and everything. 

"Alexander, breathe," George says. "I'm on my way."

"I'm sorry," he says again. 

"Don't be. Listen to me. You need to focus on damage control right now. Find a bucket and go into the bathroom. You're going to catch all the water you can and keep dumping it into your tub, understand? Just like bailing out a sinking ship." 

"Okay. Yeah. I can do that." Alex shoves the phone between his shoulder and his ear and runs to his tiny kitchen. He finds his little peach-colored mop bucket under the sink. "You're coming here?"

"I'm only a few blocks away. Just sit tight and keep calling your super. He's probably in a basement or something." 

"Right. I will. See you soon." Phone in one hand, bucket in the other, Alex marches into the bathroom. He gets soaked almost immediately, his jeans and tank top sodden in the torrent of cold water, but he does exactly what George said and bails like his life depends on it. Not easy in such close quarters, and especially with the lights off. It takes about six seconds for the bucket to fill to the brim, and every so often Alex uses those seconds to redial his super, who still isn't picking up. He thinks about calling 911 but, yeah. He'll see his entire wardrobe float away before he invites cops into the building. 

After dumping what feels like a thousand gallons of water into his bathtub, Alex hears footsteps in the hall and the creak of his front door. "In here," he calls, and George appears in the doorway. He's wearing the black henley under his new jacket, so at least one thing is going right tonight, Alex thinks in a daze. 

"It hasn't slowed?" George asks as he wades into the mess, grabbing the bucket from Alex and taking over the work of bailing. 

"No, it's getting worse." Four seconds per bucketful now. Alex presses himself against the tiled wall so they both fit in the tiny bathroom. His heart is pounding. "My upstairs neighbor— I think it's a little old lady, I don't know her name. What if she's—?" 

"She's not answering the door?"

Alex shakes his head. He won't cry. Not in front of George. 

"Okay." George shoves the bucket back in Alex's hands. "Keep at it. I'm going up there." 

"Her door is locked. I tried it already," Alex says. 

"I'm not going in through the door," George says, and he strides across Alex's apartment to the window that looks out onto the fire escape, taking off his jacket as he goes. "Stay here. I don't want you getting cut by the glass."

"What glass? George!" He makes an abortive move forward, but George opens the window and climbs out on the fire escape before he can stop him. Without anything else to do, Alex bails some more. A few seconds later, he hears a crash and the sound of a window shattering. "For fuck's sake, be careful!" he shouts over his shoulder.

Silence, save for the rushing water. 

Alex chews his lip but doesn't stop working to keep the flood at bay. "George?" he calls after another minute. "Are you…?" 

No one answers him, but soon the water slows, then calms to the barest of trickles. Alex tries to scoop up water from the floor, but the bucket isn't the best for that job, so he runs to the linen closet and gets every towel he owns, spreading them out on the floors to soak up as much as he can before wringing them out over the tub. 

He turns toward the open window but doesn't see any movement. "George! Talk to me!" 

When George returns a few moments later, it's via the door. He's completely drenched in water, his shirt clinging to his skin. He blinks droplets from his lashes and says, "Mulligan was right. Your neighbor fell asleep in the tub."

Alex swallows. "Is she—?" 

"She's fine. A little shaken. Mostly embarrassed." George passes a hand over his head, wiping off more water. "And she certainly didn't expect to see a strange black guy in her bathroom this evening." 

The laugh that bubbles up from Alex's throat is more than a little hysterical. "I can't believe you," he says, and what he means is _I can't believe you exist_. Just then, his phone rings. 

Alex glares at his screen. "Oh, now the super calls." 

Bill the super arrives soon after, apologetic but defensive. He was on the subway, he didn't have reception, supers have lives too, you know. Oh, and that hole in Alex's bathroom? That's going to take awhile to fix. He can start tomorrow on the patch job, but that plasterwork will need time. Not to mention he's got to to set up some fans to dry out the floors. And then there's 6F to deal with, and a broken window to boot. Yeah, a real mess. It happens. It's these damn old tubs, they don't have overflow drains like the newer ones. That's life in a pre-war for you.

Alex and George sit in the hallway, their backs to the wall, still soaking wet as the super comes and goes with fans and extension cords. Now that the danger has passed, Alex feels incredibly drained. Like he's run a marathon. In wet jeans. 

"I should change," he says almost to himself. "If I have anything left that's dry."

George hums, leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Don't let me forget my jacket. It's still on the fire escape, covered in broken glass." 

"So you used it to wrap up your hand and then—?" Alex mimes punching through a window. "I thought that only worked in action movies."

"Where do you think I got the idea?" George smirks, eyes still closed. 

They sit in companionable, exhausted silence for a few moments. Then: "Was Tilghman pissed at you for taking off tonight?" Alex asks. 

"On the contrary, he was very understanding," George says. "When I told him it was an emergency, he told me to go, took care of the check himself. Decent guy."

Alex bites back a sigh. "I'm sorry I ruined your date."

"Eh, it's not a huge deal. I don't think we were really clicking anyway."

"No?" 

"No," George says, but doesn't elaborate. He finally opens his eyes and looks down at himself. "I don't suppose you have any dry pants that might fit me?" 

"Sorry. This ain't a Big and Tall," Alex says. He shifts against the wall, groans. "It ain't much of anything, actually. Fuck, my whole apartment is a wreck." 

"Why don't you stay at my place tonight?" The words are light, innocent. Alex is sure he hasn't heard right.

He turns his head to stare at George. "Seriously?"

"Sure. Get out for a day, let your super handle the repairs. You can crash on the couch. I don't mind." George spreads his hands wide. "I'll even make breakfast in the morning." 

Alex licks his suddenly dry lips. "I'll have to throw a few things in a bag first," he says. 

"Go ahead. I'll wait." George shuts his eyes again, a grin playing around his mouth. "Oh, and grab my jacket off the fire escape, will you? Careful of the glass."

"Whatever you say, hero of the hour." Alex gives his shoulder a pat before levering himself onto his feet and padding back into the disaster area. He finds the jacket draped over the fire escape stairs and shakes the glass out of it. A quick change into dry clothes, a few things stuffed into his backpack, double-checking that he's got his toothbrush and phone charger, and then he's ready to go. 

As ready as he'll ever be for a slumber party at George's, really.


	4. The Sleepover

It's a little after ten when they arrive at George's condo. Not nearly late enough to go to sleep, though Alex is bone-weary. George, still in his damp clothes, says, "I'm going to clean myself up. Feel free to get a drink or something," before disappearing down the hall. 

Alex helps himself to a glass of OJ and sips at it while standing in front of the open refrigerator to take stock of its contents. It's about as sparse as Alex's own: milk, bread, eggs, butter, the juice, a few yogurt cups, a thing of pickles. Alex pulls out a bottle of white wine that's two-thirds full, takes note of the label. It's easy to imagine George coming home after a long day of consulting—whatever that is—and pouring himself one scant glass. 

He shuts the fridge door and puts his cup in the spotless, empty kitchen sink. 

George emerges from his bedroom in flannel pajama bottoms and a white tee shirt, toweling his shaved head dry. "Bathroom's free if you need it," he tells Alex. 

To get to the bathroom, Alex first passes through the bedroom. He catches sight of two framed photographs on the bureau as he goes by, the first personal touches he's seen in the otherwise sterile apartment. One photograph is of the stepkids; Alex recognizes them from George's wallet photos. The girl is wearing a mortar board and gown for her graduation day, and the boy has his arm slung over her shoulders, two big smiles for the camera. 

The other picture is of George and another guy who's so big, he dwarfs him as they stand side by side. They're wearing fatigues. Thumbs hooked into flack vests, guns hoisted against their chests. A desert stretches out behind them. No smiles in this one. Alex picks up the picture frame and looks at the photograph more closely. It's weird to see George looking so young. He still has hair in the photo, close-cropped but thick with curls. Hard eyes. 

So George is ex-military. Makes sense. Always punctual, neat, efficient. Alex does some quick mental math. The George in the photo looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties. Iraq? Afghanistan? Alex wonders if he can ask or if that's considered rude. 

He puts the picture frame back on the bureau and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

When Alex returns, George is waiting on the couch, one leg crossed with his ankle resting on his knee. He catches sight of Alex, still dressed in his dry jeans and tank. "Do you need to borrow some sweatpants?"

Alex flings himself onto the sofa cushions and groans. "I was just going to sleep in my boxers, if you don't mind." Normally he sleeps in the nude, but he'll make an exception for George's couch. He is a guest, after all. "Thanks for letting me stay here, seriously. I really appreciate it."

"It's not a problem," George says.

Alex settles in, pulls a big throw pillow over his lap and hugs it. It's so quiet, just the two of them. He feels the urge to start playing music or to flick on the TV. But maybe George likes the quiet. Anyway, it gives them a chance to talk. "So. Tench was a bust. Are you going to text him later?"

"I don't know. I'll probably offer to buy him dinner to make up for my dine and dash. Maybe just send him a gift card." George rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Ugh, that reminds me: can I get your super's number? I should pay for that broken window." 

"What? Why? You only broke it because you had to."

"He might charge the lady upstairs. She shouldn't have to deal with that."

"Uh, you saved her life probably. The least she can do is cover the window." 

"Alexander, please," George says. "Just give me the number?"

For a moment, Alex just glares at him stubbornly. Then he reaches for his backpack and retrieves his phone. "Fine. But you're a pushover." He goes into his contacts and copies the info into a text. "You have to watch out for number one sometimes, you know. Speaking of—" He hits send. "Since you're lukewarm on Tench, does that mean you'll be seeing that Friedrich guy again?"

George looks away. A smile plays on his lips. "As a matter of fact, we have plans to grab a drink after work soon."

Alex whistles. "Third date, huh? That's exciting."

"I suppose it is."

"Do you see it going anywhere?" Alex asks. His eyebrows leap up and down. "Like, for example, his place?"

George rolls his eyes, his expression fond. "Alex—"

"What? I know it's a cliche but, third date! That's when the magic happens. If you want some magic." He frowns as he takes in George's defensive posture, wedged into the corner of the sofa between the arm and the back, fingertips picking at some invisible fuzz on his pajama pants. His heart sinks. "Do you...not want that?" 

"No, I do—"

"Because if you've changed your mind about exploring that side of yourself, that's okay."

"I know it's okay. But I do. Want to. Try," George bites out word after word. He gestures vaguely. "It's only, I've never been intimate with a man. And it's been so long since I've been intimate with _anyone_ , I just—" He sighs. Rubs a hand up his face and across the top of his bare head. "It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it." 

Alex stifles a laugh. "George, you have nothing to be nervous about."

"Oh really?" He starts ticking off his fingers. "First I have to play my cards right to even be invited into the bedroom. Then I have to explain that it's my first time with a guy and I don't know what I'm doing. Then, supposing he's still on board, which would be a miracle, I've got to muddle through with absolutely no roadmap. And I'm not even sure I'll enjoy it, let alone please a lover!" 

"Okay, but look— You can't be totally clueless, right? You know what you like. You can ask the other guy what he likes, then do a little bit of both. It's not that difficult." Alex tilts his head in thought. "What do you like, anyway?" 

"Nothing. Not anything...specific." 

"You don't watch gay porn?" 

"Sure, but that's not exactly real."

"Yes, fine, but what do you type into the little search bar when you're jerking off?" Alex fiddles his fingers in mid-air as if he's at an invisible keyboard.

George shifts on the sofa. "I type in, I don't know, normal stuff. 'Gay.' 'Gay kissing.' 'Gay love.'" 

"That's it? You don't seek out any videos in particular? Nothing that grabs your attention?"

"I like the ones where the actors seem to be enjoying themselves. But typing in 'gay smiling' doesn't really get you many results."

"Fuck, your internet history is boring. It should be in a museum."

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you." George crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. 

Alex laughs at the picture he makes. "Listen, are you worried about getting the mechanics of it right on the first try? You don't have to do anal, especially not for your first time. Lots of gay guys don't have penetrative sex very often. I sure don't."

George blinks at him. "You don't?" 

"Nah." Alex makes a face. "It's always such a fucking production. The lube and the condoms and like, an hour of prep. Don't get me wrong, I'll plow someone once in awhile. But I have to be in the right mood."

"So what do you normally do with your...partners?" George asks. 

"You can call them hookups; I'm not a venture capital firm." 

"All right, what do you normally do with your hookups?"

Now it's Alex's turn to count on his fingers. "Handjobs, blowjobs, good old-fashioned grinding, jacking off for them, you know, easy stuff. Why don't you stick to those things, at least to start?"

"That...actually makes sense," George says.

"Why do you sound so surprised? I make tons of sense all the time."

"Some of the time," George concedes. His brows furrow in thought. "It's still nerve-wracking. How am I supposed tell a near-stranger that he's going to be my first gay experience?"

"You don't have to," Alex points out. Then, remembering how goddamn honest George tends to be, he says, "Just get the first gay experience out of the way." 

George gives him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I could help out. Check that box, ease you into things." The more he thinks about it, the more it seems completely reasonable. "I already know the whole story, and you won't need to impress me or anything. It'll be fun." 

"Alexander, I—" George's mouth hangs open a little as he searches for words. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate."

"I've fooled around with almost all my friends, you know that," Alex says. "It's not a big deal if you don't make it into one." 

George looks down, across the room, anywhere but Alex. "Right." 

A heavy sigh. "I'm not going to twist your arm, just thought I'd offer. If you'd rather not—"

"What would we do?" George asks, swinging his gaze back to meet Alex's. "If we messed around, I mean."

Alex tries not to look taken aback by this sudden change in attitude. "Well, whatever you felt comfortable with. Maybe start simple." He drops his eyes to the front of George's pajamas, considering. "Do you want me to give you a blowjob?"

"You'd do that?"

"Sure. You can see how you like it; I could give you some play-by-play pointers. What do you think?"

Uncertain is probably a good word to describe the contortions that pass across George's face. Dubious, perhaps. Alex is about to rescind the proposal altogether, play it off as a joke or something, but George's visage settles into something a little more calm and collected. He sits tall and squares his shoulders. 

"All right," he says.

"All right?" Alex leans forward just a touch. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not going to say no." George laughs, and Alex laughs with him. The uncertainty returns to his voice, though, once the laughter dies down. "So how should we…?"

Alex shakes his head at this display of cluelessness, tosses aside the pillow he's been holding. "Come here," he says, and reaches for him. 

His fingers dig into the soft fabric of George's tee shirt, using it as leverage to pull him forward. George goes willingly, eyes falling closed long before Alex goes in for a kiss. It's not a very good kiss: too many teeth, too wooden.

"Would you please relax?" Alex says into his ear just before he bites it.

George hisses, but doesn't pull away. "I'm trying, okay?"

"It's only me." A little lick of that hot earlobe, a little suckle. Alex releases it with a pop to say, "You're not scared of me, are you?"

George pulls away so Alex can see his face, opens his eyes. "Can I tell you something?" Those eyes are wide and honest. "I'm terrified."

Alex blinks. Feels his face soften into something he hopes isn't too much like pity. "Oh, George," he sighs, but doesn't say anything more. His hand cups the back of George's neck and he brings him in—carefully, so as not to spook him—for another kiss.

This one's better. The next one is better still. 

George seems to melt the longer it goes on, kissing Alex back with increasing fervor. He's pliant under Alex's hands, going where he's guided and laying back while Alex stretches out on top of him. The sound of their mouths sliding together is starkly loud in the quiet of the apartment. Alex draws his right hand down George's stomach to find his dick, already throbbing and straining in his pajamas. His thumb slips across a wet spot on the fabric. A bolt of lust hits Alex out of nowhere; he hadn't planned on getting so turned on so quickly, but George is making these little gasping sounds, and his cock is twitching under the soft flannel, and the air is about a thousand degrees all around them. He's hard in his jeans before he knows what's happening.

Alex's left hand slides down George's neck to rest on his sternum. "Damn," Alex murmurs, feeling the sharp staccato beneath his palm, "your heart is racing."

"Yeah," George agrees. He cranes his neck upward to catch another kiss. "Yeah, it is." 

"You going to be okay?" Alex smirks down at him. "If you have a heart attack, are there some pills I should give you? Are you wearing your Life Alert?"

George levels a look at him. His voice is cold. "Can you stop with the jokes for one goddamn minute?" 

He's actually angry, Alex realizes with a wince. He glances away, chastised. "Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood." To make up for it, he rubs his hand across George's still-pounding heart. "It doesn't feel a day over twenty-nine. Promise."

"Just—" The ice leaves George's eyes. "Kiss me again?" 

Alex does without complaint. 

They end up with George stretched along the length of the sofa with one foot on the floor, legs spread wide to accommodate Alex. Alex reaches into the flap of his pajama bottoms, thinking he'll just pull out George's cock through it, but George stops him with a hand on his wrist. 

"Hold on," he says, and lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his knees. His shirt comes off a moment later and hits the floor. "I'm sweating like crazy." 

"That's fine," Alex says, because it is. He takes in George's body, which is exactly as solid bare as it is clothed. His fingers wander down those big thighs, thick where Alex is thin, bulk where Alex is always trying to build more muscle. "You good?"

George nods. His cock flexes against his stomach. His hands are slowly reaching out toward Alex. 

Alex folds his own hands over them to halt their progress. "Hey, just a heads up: I don't like having my hair grabbed or anything. None of that toppy shit, okay? Just sit back and let me work."

"Okay," George says, strained, and brings his hands back behind his head to clutch at the arm of the couch. "I won't grab." 

"Some guys might like it. They'll tell you, or show you." 

"But I should never assume?"

"You got it," Alex says with a grin. He folds himself over George's lap and takes his dick in his hand. "Now then. Don't get too wrapped up in trying to stuff the whole thing in your mouth. Deep-throating is fine for porn but in real life, just use your hand to work the parts you can't swallow. Feels just as good. And no gagging." He bends down to illustrate his point, taking in the head of George's cock between his lips, jacking the rest of the shaft with his fingers. 

George arches his back off the cushions with a groan. "That's very…educational," he gasps out.

Alex can't help but grin around the dick in his mouth. It's nice, knowing he's affecting someone so much. It makes him feel powerful in the best way. He backs off with a loud slurp and keeps up the stroking, watching George thrash into pieces.

"Pay attention," Alex chides. "There might be a test later."

"God, I hope so." George's voice is thick with longing. It's too real.

Alex looks back down at the task at hand. Moving on. "Now don't forget these." He cups a hand around George's balls. They're tight and bunched up, looking like they're about to nut already. "But be gentle. It's a sensitive area."

"You think?" George says breathlessly. The muscles in his arms ripple with the apparent control needed to keep them above his head. "Alexander—"

"All right, hold your horses." Alex lowers his head again, sucks George's cock and listens to him curse. Uses all his little tricks: teasing that tiny spot right under the ridge, switching up between the flat and tip of his tongue, a soft hum of enjoyment in the back of his throat. At one point he glances up the naked length of George's torso and sees that his eyes and mouth are open, gaze fixed skyward as if he can see angels there. 

It's a good look.

He lets up to check in again, just to be safe. "How are we doing?" 

George's hands scramble for purchase in the sofa's fabric. "Fuck, please don't stop!" 

"So, good?"

"So good," George pants. "So very good. I'm— I—" 

"You going to pop already? I still have a few things to show you." Alex soothes a palm over George's heaving chest, pauses to tweak at a dark nipple. His other hand squeezes tight at the very base of George's cock. His own, still trapped in his jeans, throbs in sympathy. 

"I'm all right, I can hold it off." George looks down at him with the most pleading eyes Alex has ever seen. "Whatever you want. Just don't stop." 

Alex bites back a snarky comment about older men and their famed stamina, instead concentrating on placing sloppy love-bites on the soft insides of George's thighs. "You've got to take your time. Keep the guy guessing. He should be thinking, damn, anything can happen." He crooks a finger behind George's balls and breathes on them, close and hot. "Within reason," he murmurs before licking one ball into his mouth. 

"Jesus!" George's right hand lets go of the sofa and instead fists in front of his own teeth so he can bite down on his knuckles. Alex watches this reaction with a deep sense of professional pride. He pulls away and laps at the head of that thick dick, tasting the sharp tang of leaking fluid. The ache in his jaw is negligible; the sounds coming from George more than make up for it.

It's not long before Alex senses that George is close. His desperate noises are rising in pitch, his whole frame is shuddering. Alex releases the cock from his mouth and strokes it expertly, saying, "Go ahead, you lasted long enough. You can come." 

Eyes shut tight, mouth slack, breath coming fast, chanting Alex's name like he can't remember any other words. George on the very verge of orgasm. Quite a sight. 

Swallowing isn't Alex's favorite thing to do, but spitting might seem a little insulting. He wants the end to be hot for George, so he splits the difference and bends closer to the head of George's cock, gets it right up against his cheek. 

"Come on," Alex says just before the first stream of hot jizz hits the bridge of his nose and drips down to his chin. His mouth opens in a gasp, not that he's shocked, but he knows it will look good: his pink lips, swollen from sucking, parted. His face a mess, covered in George's come. Another spurt, then another. Two more after that. 

"Fuck, it just keeps going," Alex hisses, and jacks George's dick carefully. One last drop, artfully smeared across his cheekbone. He looks up at George to see his reaction. 

George is the picture of disbelief. His mouth gapes open and his eyes are wide. Then his eyes slip closed and his head falls back against the cushions with a loud groan.

"Well," George says, "I'm definitely not straight."

Alex bursts into laughter, belly-deep and echoing across the apartment. His fingertips come up to swipe away some of the come that's caught in his lashes. "Glad we've got that figured out. You feeling okay?"

"I feel amazing." It's practically a slur. "That was— Alexander, I don't know what to say."

"Say you can reach those tissues for me," Alex says, gesturing to a box of Kleenex on the side table closest to George. 

"I don't know. My limbs may never work again." George's hand gropes blindly for the tissues behind his head, finally managing to pluck one from the box. "Here. Let me." He levers himself into a sitting position and swipes the tissue down Alex's nose a little clumsily. "Damn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make such a mess." 

"It's not your fault. Just thought you'd like to see a facial." He takes the Kleenex from George's fingers. "Your hand is shaking; I'll do it." 

As Alex cleans up, George slumps bonelessly back into the sofa cushions, still panting for air. "Fuck," he whispers with feeling. His gaze goes to some distant point. "I didn't know it would be so different from, you know, what I've done before. I thought a mouth was a mouth. But it was—" He shakes his head as if dreaming. "The way your goatee felt against my skin. Your voice. Fuck." 

Alex tosses the wet tissue onto the floor to be picked up later. George doesn't seem to be in a position to scold him. "So you liked it?" The question sounds innocent, but there's an undercurrent of smugness that Alex can't completely excise. 

George turns his head to stare at him, then, instead of answering, surges forward and kisses him. It's the best kiss so far, and it reminds Alex of the ache in his jeans where his erection is still waiting. 

When they break apart to breathe, George says against Alex's neck, "Can I try now?" His hands curl around Alex's hips, and Alex instinctively places his hands over George's. 

"You don't have to," Alex says. "There's no law against getting a blowjob and not giving one in return."

"But I'm still learning," George says, and kisses along his Adam's apple. "Please? I want to. I may not be an expert but I'll— I'll do my best."

How can Alex refuse? George does need to work on his skills, after all.

They rearrange themselves: Alex sitting on the sofa with George kneeling on the floor. It's a little strange, George still being naked and Alex fully clothed, but Alex decides the contrast is appealing. He unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly, takes his dick out while George watches it closely. He seems to be studying every vein and curve, and when his thick fingers finally wrap around it, Alex puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Just like I showed you," he says. 

Alex isn't expecting fireworks. The bar is low; the guy's never sucked a cock in his life. But George licks his lips and goes for it, tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm, laving and sucking with abandon. There's a little more spit involved than is strictly necessary, in Alex's opinion, but he's not about to stop George even though he's soaking the front of his jeans. 

He's clearly enjoying himself, which is hotter than it has any right to be. George's dark eyes flick up to meet his, the question clear in his gaze. Alex bites back the moan that's building in his throat and reaches down to cup George’s cheek in his palm. "You’re doing so good," he says, voice forcibly level. "Keep going."

George's eyes slide closed. A whimper in his throat, vibrating along Alex's shaft. It's good, so Alex strokes his thumb along George's distended cheek. Encourages him with little hums and sighs. Finally, George pulls off to nose along Alex's balls. "I think," he says in a rough voice, "that I might be one of those guys that doesn't mind a hand on his head. If you'd like."

"Fuck yeah." Alex slides his hand up the back of George's neck to rest lightly—it's his first time, he doesn't want to choke him—on the fragile curve of his skull. They both groan at the sensation: Alex carefully pressing George down on his dick, letting him bob up, pressing him down again. He lets George suck for a good long while, tossing out guidance along the way. "Careful of the teeth. There you go. Just like that, George. More on the tip, just— Yeah, perfect." Alex lets his head fall back as pleasure shakes him. He's going to come soon, he can feel it. 

He can't come in George's mouth. He's not that cruel. 

"Stop, stop, stop. Ease up," Alex says, and gives George a little push. George lets his cock slip free from his lips with a small, unhappy noise. He looks up, and his face is _hurt_ , like he can't believe Alex is taking this away from him. 

"I'm close," Alex bites out in explanation. He wraps his fist around his shaft and gives it a few hard tugs. 

George rises up high on his kneecaps, his gaze riveted to the head of Alex's dick. "Should I—?" 

"No, it's fine." Alex cups his free hand under his slit. "I've got it. Aw, shit." His balls tighten up and his cock flexes in his fingers, spilling into his palm. George watches, rapt, as the come forms a little puddle.

"You didn't want to finish on my face?" he asks. He sounds almost disappointed.

Alex laughs, breathless and tired. "I thought that would be a little advanced for you." He gestures to the Kleenex with his clean hand. George moves to grab a couple for him. 

"It wouldn't bother me if you did," George says as he hands over the tissues. "I'm curious about how it feels."

"It's sticky," Alex mutters. He wipes his hand as clean as he can. Tucks himself back in his jeans and zips up. "Trust me, you did plenty for your first try. There'll be time for other stuff later, with other guys."

George goes quiet then. He looks down at himself and seems to realize that he's still naked. His hands grope for his flannel pajama pants, recovering them from where they pooled onto the floor. He stands and puts them back on, all without saying a word. 

Alex watches all this from his boneless sprawl on the sofa. Shit, he thinks. After all that, does George still have the butterflies? 

"Hey." He gives George a light kick in the shin with his bare foot. "You're a natural. You won't have any problems at all when you decide to get serious with someone." 

"Can I quote you on that?" George murmurs, then turns back to face Alex with a tired smile. He squeezes himself onto the couch, nearly squishing Alex. "Make room, will you?"

"Too sleepy to move," Alex whines. 

"Fine. I'll move you myself." And he does, picks up Alex like he weighs no more than a box of cornflakes and arranges them so they're laying down again, Alex on top of George, pillowed against his chest. 

Alex blinks. His eyelashes brush against George's skin. "You're not going to bed?" 

"It's too far," George says. He brings one arm to loop over Alex. Holding him close. "I'd like to stay here." He presses his lips, soft and almost lovingly, to Alex's temple.

Alex flushes hot all over. Of course this would make him blush, not the furious makeout session, not the oral sex. Just this, curled together on a couch. It's a little too cozy for friends with benefits, but in the time it takes to formulate a tactful protest, George is asleep. Literally snoring. It's kind of funny, actually. 

Couldn't hurt to rest his eyes just for a moment. Alex listens to the beat of George's heart under his ear—calmer now—and his ridiculous snores, and drifts into an exhausted, post-orgasm darkness. 

He jolts awake hours later. For a second, he can't remember what's going on and he's on the verge of panic. Then George snuffles near his ear and everything comes back: the bathtub, the fire escape, the blowjobs. Alex shifts a little, his cheek pressed against George's chest, rising and falling along with his breathing. 

George has both arms around him now. Clutching him like a damn teddy bear. One big hand has stolen up his tank top and rests at the small of his back. 

It's not dark out anymore. The first watery light of dawn is filtering through the window. The living room lights are on; they'd forgotten to switch them off before they fell asleep. It's bright enough to see everything clearly. Alex picks up his head and looks at George. His face is peaceful. Still. His mouth is open a little. Alex wonders if he's a drooler. Seems dry so far.

This close, Alex can see the fuzz on George's shaved head, the flash of lightness at his temples where the hair would grow in silver if it were allowed to grow at all. He can see the little wrinkles alongside George's mouth, every single fork in the crow's feet at the corner of his eye. He reaches out with his fingertips and traces them gently. George's neck has four deep, uneven lines that bisect across his throat. Alex touches one. He can feel George's pulse beneath it.

He jerks his hand away. What the hell is he doing?

George is forty-four years old. Almost twenty years Alex's senior. Definitely twenty years if he's going by his fake age. George is lonely, vulnerable. Inexperienced. Not interested in frivolity, thinks Alex is absurd, useful for the gay scene, useless in everything else. He's such a nerd, it's sad.

He's also sweet, and warm, and funny, looks good in sleeveless shirts, and when he smiles— 

Oh, this is not good. He cannot be falling for George. He can't. There's just no way.

Time to run, the survivor mechanism in Alex's brain informs him. Alex has learned to listen to it without question. He needs to go. Now.

He extricates himself from George's grasp without waking him, practically slithering onto the floor. George mumbles something in his sleep but just rolls over onto his side. Alex takes a deep breath to make up for the one he'd been holding. Finds his phone, grabs his backpack. He slips on his shoes and unlocks the front door as quietly as he can. 

One last glance at George's sleeping form on the couch. Then Alex is gone, shutting the door in his wake.


	5. The Fight

There aren't a ton of places to go at six-thirty in the morning. The Y won't open for hours since it's a Sunday; same for the tea shops and bakeries. Alex considers heading back to his apartment, but it's probably still damp and gross. In the end, he ends up at the 24-hour Greek diner a few blocks away. He sits at the counter with his backpack on the empty stool next to him and orders coffee, black. 

Thoughts swirl as he stares into his cup. He never should have offered that blowjob. Harmless flirting was one thing but this? Fuck, George probably thinks he has a chance now, which is bad because Alex is not boyfriend material. He's 'getting head in the back room of a club' material at best. He's not ready to decide between skim and soy; he's definitely not ready to date a mature man, no matter how good said man looks in a tank top.

He needs to talk to someone. Hash out the mess he's made. If Mulligan weren't on his romantic weekend trip with John, Alex would text him in a heartbeat, but he's already interrupted the lovebirds once and he can't in good conscience do it again. It's too early for Laf and Adrienne to be awake. Everyone else that Alex is on friendly terms with is probably either in bed nursing a hangover or sleeping next to their conquest from the night before.

Alex thinks about George dozing alone on his sofa, reaching for a body that isn't there. 

He drains his coffee mug and asks for a refill. He's almost finished with that one when his phone pings. It's George. _Did you leave already? I was going to make you crepes :)_

How long did it take to compose that text, Alex wonders. The smiley face reeks of forced nonchalance. He can picture George adding it to the end of the message, deleting it, then adding it back again after much thought. It's depressing. 

Time to fall on his sword. He starts to reply, but everything he wants to say is too much to type. Too many ways the tone could be read wrong. So he hits the call button instead. 

George picks up on the second ring. "Hey!" Yeah, that's not real cheeriness in his voice. "Two phone calls in as many days. You're breaking your own rules left and right, Alexander."

He doesn't have time for teasing. "You can't make me crepes," Alex says in a rush. 

"Okay," George says slowly. "Are you allergic or…?"

"Crepes are for boyfriends, George." 

"Pretty sure anyone can eat crepes if they want."

"No," Alex says with fraying patience, "crepes are meant to impress. I bet you have a special crepe pan you have to pull out and one of those little wooden rakes for crepe batter. You don't do that for a fuckbuddy. That's boyfriend-level shit."

"So what? I think you deserve...crepes," George says, stilted. 

Alex's vision goes red. "Forget the fucking crepes!" The lone waitress behind the counter looks up from the tray she's wiping with a rag. Alex scowls and turns himself ninety degrees to the right on his swivel stool in a bid for privacy. "Listen, I told you not to make a big deal out of this."

"Who's making a big deal?" George says. "I'm not the one who left in the middle of the night like some slinking thief!" 

"Well, _I'm_ not the one who turned some perfectly fine blowjobs into a cuddle session complete with fucking forehead kisses! Jesus Christ!" He glances over his shoulder. The waitress is now openly staring, one hand on her hip. Alex covers the mouthpiece on his cell and hisses, "Should I start selling tickets?"

She snaps her gum, puts her hands up in the air like she's admitting defeat, and pointedly turns to fiddle with a coffeepot. 

George's heavy sigh comes down the line. There's a long pause before he says, "Clearly I've made you uncomfortable. That was not my intention; I'm sorry." 

Alex rubs at his tired eyes. He feels like he's just kicked a million puppies. Really cute ones, too. "It's fine, I just— I'm trying to establish boundaries, okay? Neither of us should get any unrealistic expectations." He drops his hand. "Last night was my mistake. I like you a lot, George, but—"

"I like you too, so why can't we—?" 

No one interrupts Alexander Hamilton. He raises his voice and barrels ahead. "—but I have to be a fucking adult here if no one else will! You don't want to get involved with someone who's too young for you, who isn't good for you. And if you thought about it for five seconds, you'd realize you shouldn't pull a 180 on that decision just because _you're scared of being alone_." 

There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Alex thinks he's gone too far. The silence is overwhelming.

Alex finally breaks. "George? You still there?"

"Yeah. Yes. You're right." He sounds resigned. "You're my friend; I won't overstep."

Alex usually feels better when he's won an argument. "Okay." He licks his lips. "So are we good?"

"Yeah, we're good," George says. 

A beat. "Want to go to the gym with me later?" Because an olive branch wouldn't hurt. 

"I, uh, think I'll go for a run actually. Clear my head." Another small pause. "Tomorrow after work, though? Get in a leg day?" 

"Sure, of course," Alex says. "Hey. Just so you know? That Friedrich guy, or whoever you end up with? You're going to knock 'em dead."

"Shut up," George says, but it's fond. 

"I'm serious. You won't be on the market for long. You're what they call a catch, Mr. Washington." Unseen on his end of the line, he clenches his teeth and shuts his eyes in a wince. Be more tragically into him, why don't you, he berates himself.

"Well, that's very kind of you, Mr. Hamilton." George chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you then." Alex hangs up and stares at his phone for a moment. When he glances up, the waitress is eyeing him across the formica with a look of extreme skepticism on her face. 

"No one asked you," he snaps.

"I didn't say a word," she says, and pours him a third cup of coffee without being told.

___________________________________

The next couple of weeks are a little awkward, sure. George still meets up with Alex at the gym and keeps to their routine, but there is a strained quality to their banter. Raw feelings, careful words. Alex asks—politely, of course—how the third date with Friedrich went, and George is silent for a long, long moment. His eyelashes sweep downward on his cheek; he gnaws at his lip.

"Right, you don't kiss and tell," Alex says. It's embarrassing to see a grown man blush like that.

George shrugs, musters up a grin. "That's me." 

So Alex drops it. The details are none of his business. As long as George is happy. 

He checks his Minibar app to see if they carry that wine George had in his fridge. They do, so he sends a bottle to George's place with a note that says CONGRATS, YOU SMUG BASTARD. He gets the delivery notification later that night, and a few minutes after that, a picture text. It's a photo of George pressing the wine bottle against the side of his face and smiling like a huge dork. 

_My favorite! How did you know? Come over sometime and help me drink it. You can have two glasses, I'll have the rest._

Alex texts back, tells him it's a plan. Chuckles over the photo a little more. Saves it as George's icon in his contact list. 

This is fine, he thinks. This is good. They're getting back to being friendly. A little weirdness is to be expected, but they're handling it like real grown-ups. Even Herc agrees that this is the best course of action, once Alex relates the story. (Although Alex edits just a bit. His version of George may have been a little more pushy, and his version of himself, a little more level-headed. But that's just how stories go.)

On Friday, Alex leaves the office with a monster headache and a desire to just cut loose at karaoke night. He texts Laf and John, tells them he's heading to their usual bar if they want to come. There's always George and his offer to kill that bottle if no one else is available. 

Alex reaches the bar's front door and glances through the big picture window that's draped in rainbow flags before he opens it, a habit to gauge the crowd. What he sees stops him right on the sidewalk. George is there, sitting at the bar next to a very tall, dark, and model-handsome man. Alex recognizes him from his Grindr profile. Friedrich, in the flesh. 

His first instinct is to go. Turn around and leave. If George is out on another date with this guy, Alex shouldn't barge in. Especially after their little talk about boundaries.

On the other hand, this is his bar, says his sense of self-righteous justice. He was coming here way before George even showed up in town. Why should he abandon his plans just because George is on a date? It's a free country.

While Alex stands there weighing these two lines of thought, Friedrich says something that makes George throw back his head and laugh. Alex can hear it through the window, even over the noise of the bar and the street. It's deep and throaty. Then George pushes away from the bar and stands, a hand intimately placed on Friedrich's shoulder before he heads to the back corner where the restrooms are. 

Okay. That simplifies things. Alex can meander inside and sit down near Friedrich without being noticed. When George returns from the bathroom, everyone can be surprised at their little coincidence and Alex, ever the gentleman, will shake hands with Friedrich, introduce himself, then offer to buy the couple a drink. That way things won't be weird. 

Alex takes a deep breath and heads inside. 

He finds an empty stool right next to Friedrich, not the one George had just vacated, but the one on his other side. He doesn't even have time to order his amaretto and coke before Friedrich turns to him and says in a thick German-ish accent, "Why, hello." 

Alex darts a quick look at him. "Hey." His voice is careful, measured. This wasn't part of the plan. Friedrich doesn't know his face, but he sure as hell knows Friedrich's and George knows that he knows. If George comes back and sees them chatting, Alex is no longer the cool customer who wandered into his neighborhood bar without noticing the hulking bear of a man from Grindr. He's the stalker who's following George's every move. 

Friedrich leans in closer as if trying to catch Alex's eye. "Please forgive me if this is very forward, but may I buy you a drink?"

"No thanks. I'm good," Alex says, clipped. Where does this guy get off? Hitting on some stranger while George takes a leak? Even Alex wouldn't do that on a date.

"Ah, of course. It is a weakness of mine, very sorry." And he turns back to his bottle of Amstel Light as if the conversation's over. 

Alex rounds on him, bristling. "What do you mean by that? What's a weakness of yours?"

Friedrich smiles at him. His teeth are perfect, which is annoying. "Well, since you asked. My weakness is beautiful young men." His fingertips graze the surface of the bar, playing in a ring of condensation. "Taking care of their needs, specifically."

"I can take care of myself," Alex grits out between his imperfect, clenched teeth. 

"That is obvious, _mein Freund_." Friedrich regards Alex with a raised brow. "But I couldn't help but notice you sat here next to me when there are about six other chairs in the room to be had."

Shit. Alex's brain grapples for a response. "I happen to like this seat."

"Of course." He leans in close. His eyes are dancing. "It probably likes you, too. I know I would, if I had you sitting on me." 

Alex flushes. "Listen, buddy—"

"Alexander?" George appears with a look in his eyes that's equal parts concerned and confused. "Hey, um. How was work? I see you've met Friedrich."

Friedrich frowns. " _Alexander_?"

Alex stands up so quickly he almost topples over his stool. "Yeah, we've met. And this guy is a grade-A dickbag, George!" He sticks a finger in Friedrich's perfect Eurotrash face. "He tried to pick me up the minute your back was turned. You can't date him, he's a sleazeball."

"Date?" Now Friedrich is looking around wildly, his mouth switching between a shocked O and a bemused smile. 

"Oh god—" George covers half his face with his hand.

"Yeah, date!" Alex says to Friedrich. "You know, when someone takes you out and you get to know them and you at least wait until the date's over before you try to bang someone else." He sniffs. "George deserves better."

"But this is not a date! No dating!" Friedrich pats George on his tense arm. "George and I are merely friends."

"Wait. What? Friends?" Alex gapes. "That's not true, he—" He looks at George, and George doesn't meet his eyes. He stares down at the floor, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

Friedrich, chuckling nervously, says, "My attractions tend toward something different, as you are now aware. I am sorry, I did not know—" 

Alex ignores him. His whole focus is on George. He can feel his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You _lied_ to me?" 

George still doesn't look up. Nothing but silence stretches out between them. For a long time, nobody moves.

Friedrich coughs and feigns a glance at his wristwatch. "Oh my, must run. My two, uh, associates await. Well, it was a pleasure, Alexander. George, until next time." He beats a hasty retreat to the door, leaving them alone, or as alone as they can be in a bar that's filling up with patrons. 

"I can explain," George says to the sticky floor.

"Really." Alex stares at him. "Let's take this outside."

The alleyway behind the bar is empty save for the two skinny white boys necking against the brick wall. They look up when Alex bangs open the door and storms out among the broken bottles and discarded cigarette butts. 

"Hey, how about you find your own spot?" one of them says.

"How about I just break your fucking nose?" Alex snarls, and advances on them with enough menace to make them scatter. 

"Goddamn psycho!" They call over their shoulders as they duck out of the alley, but the words roll off Alex like nothing. 

He whirls on George, who is right behind him, looking pained. "Why did you tell me that you and Friedrich were dating?" he demands.

"I never said that." George's eyebrows are all the way up and he's got one finger in the air like some kind of professor. "You just assumed."

"And you let me! You could have corrected me a million times but you didn't!" He's shouting now. His voice rings off the brick back to his ears. It sounds awful. "You _wanted_ me to think you were dating someone. You thought you could make me jealous."

"You were jealous!" George throws his hands up in the air. "Fucking hell, Alex! The texts, the needling, the questions! That was way more than friendly curiosity and you know it."

"Congratulations! You manipulated me into giving a fuck! Proud of yourself?"

"Oh, as if you've never lied to get someone interested. How tall are you again? What's your age?" George huffs a bitter laugh. "You're such a hypocrite. You're the one who told me to withhold information in the first place." 

"Yeah, with other guys! Not with me!" 

"Why? Because you're so special? Because we're such great _friends_?" George spits out the word like it's a curse. "Screw everyone else; Alexander Hamilton gets the full, unadulterated truth. Unless it's about my feelings for you, in which case you don't want to hear it." 

"You don't have feelings for me, George! You've just—" Alex waves his hands helplessly. "—imprinted on me! Like when a baby bird falls out of the nest. You're latching onto the first guy you found, that's all."

"Stop treating me like I don't know my own mind! I'm a grown man. You don't know what's best for—" The ringtone on George's phone blasts tinnily from his pocket, and he takes out his phone to scowl at the screen. 

Alex scoffs. "Who is it? Another fake boyfriend of yours?" 

"No, my sister," George mutters, and hits the red button to send the call to voicemail. "It can wait. I want to say everything I need to say to you."

"Ho-ho, bring it, Washington. Why don't you start by explaining to me exactly how you thought this would play out. At what point would I come to my senses and beg you to forget Friedrich? Does my heart grow three fucking sizes that day?" 

"I was going to tell you there was nothing romantic going on with him," George bites out, "but you kept pressing me to succeed in this dating game bullshit!"

"Oh, so it's my fault that you—" Alex is cut off by another burst of ringing from George's phone. "Seriously?" 

"Jesus. One second." George stabs a finger at the screen, sending it to voicemail yet again before glaring up at Alex. "Let's talk about your plan, shall we? How long were we going to go out on non-dates and platonically blow each other? Until I managed to lock down a real boyfriend, one you approved of? Would your little pet project be over then?" 

Alex stalks forward with enough fire in his eyes to make George take a few paces backward until he's up against the brick wall. "Excuse me for trying to help! I'm looking out for you, since you're sure as shit not going to. And by the way, I'm exercising a lot of self-control here instead of taking advantage like some people might."

"That's right, I forgot! You're a real martyr, Alexander. Putting my wellbeing first by ignoring any pesky feelings you might have. Great job. We're both so much happier this way."

"What am I supposed to do, fall into your arms? Say fuck it to the dozen reasons why I shouldn't?" He sneers. Goes for the throat. "Who cares if I could've gone to school with your damn step-kids, right?"

This close, Alex can see the tick in George's jaw. "You're a real asshole, you know that?" he says quietly. "A selfish, narcissistic little prick."

"Yes! And you're the idiot who still wants me," Alex fires back. 

"Would you please—" George's ringtone goes off again, his phone vibrating where it's still clenched in his hand. "God damn it!" He hits the green answer key. Hard. "What?" he barks into the receiver. 

"Sure, go ahead. I can wait." Alex spreads his arms wide, gloating. Another win, though it feels like another loss. 

George's eyes are on his, stony with anger while he speaks into his phone. "Yeah, Betty, it's me. Sorry, I was—" He goes quiet. His eyes lose their hardness. George stares through Alex like he's not there. "Oh my god."

Alex blinks. The air has changed around them. "George? Is everything—?" 

George doesn't answer. He's wrapped up in his phone call, his face falling. Alex can only hear one side of the conversation, but the few words make his heart sink. 

"How—? Right. I see. Uh huh. Do you need me to—? ....Okay." A long pause. "Okay. God." His voice cracks. A hand, shaking, comes up to rub at his eyes. "Yeah, of course. Bye, Bets. Yeah, I know. Okay. Bye." 

George hangs up and leans heavily against the brick wall behind him. Alex stays silent. He knows those kinds of calls. He doesn't need to ask. 

George tells him anyway. "My mother just died."

___________________________________

"Here. Sit down." Alex kicks the door shut behind them and leads George toward his sofa, one hand on his elbow. "Do you have anything stronger than wine in this place?"

"I don't know," George mumbles. He sits down heavily, like a stringless puppet. "Check the fridge, maybe?" 

The freezer yields one frosty bottle of rum nestled against the ice cube trays. Alex yanks it out and finds a tumbler, pours a neat measure into it. His phone pings, and he answers John's text with speed. Had to run, something came up, etc. He returns to the couch where George is sitting motionless exactly where he left him, and places the glass on the side table within easy reach.

"I don't know if you want it, but people always do it in movies, so…." He stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, not sure if he should take a seat. He hasn't been here, hasn't been on this couch, since he'd fallen asleep pillowed on George's chest. He may not be welcome anymore.

George looks dully at the rum, then lifts his gaze to Alex. He blinks twice, slowly, then stares around the room as if he only now recognizes his surroundings. Shock, probably. Alex knows a thing or two about that.

"Sorry." George shakes his head. "I mean. Thank you. For making sure I got home. You didn't have to do that, not after I— After all those things I said."

"It's fine," Alex says, because their fight seems kind of stupid now that someone's dead. 

"No, it's not fine." George swallows. Looks down at his loosely threaded fingers resting between his knees. "You had a right to be angry. I shouldn't have lied to you about Friedrich. That was petty of me, trying to make you jealous." He reaches suddenly for the tumbler and holds it between his hands. Not drinking, just staring into it. "Trying to make myself seem desirable." 

Alex takes a gamble and sits on the other end of the couch, his hands on his thighs. They both stare straight ahead at the blank TV on the far wall. 

"I should apologize too," Alex says, though the words feel alien on his tongue. 

A small, hysterical laugh comes coughing out of George's lips. "Alexander, please. Just because my mom's dead doesn't mean you have to—" 

"Would you let me finish?" There's only a little heat to the words. "The truth is, when we first met, I liked the idea of swooping in and saving some helpless guy from himself. But you're not helpless. And I'm no hero."

George is silent. He puts the glass of rum back on the side table. Rubs his hands together between his knees. "I understand. Thank you for being honest with me," he finally says. 

They sit in the quiet for some time. 

"I can't believe she's really gone." It's a bare whisper from George. Alex looks over to find him hunched over with a hand across his mouth. A muffled utterance: "My mother's gone."

Alex scoots an inch closer. It would take a completely heartless person to ignore this kind of pain, so he rests a palm on George's shoulder and rubs there in an attempt at comfort. "So this wasn't...expected?" 

"No, no she wasn't— She was in her seventies but she wasn't ill. Betty said it was fast. Her heart. She was in the garden, pruning some shrubs. I always tell her— I'd say, mom, take it easy. Don't overdo it. She never listened." 

Alex hums in acknowledgement. There's nothing he can say that can fill this space. He can only let George talk, which he does in fits and starts.

"The funeral's in four days. I have to go back home." A long pause. "Shit, I have all these meetings next week. I'll need to cancel them. I don't even know if my black suit is clean." A shaky breath. "Mom hated that suit."

The soothing circles get a little slower. "Sounds like your mother was an opinionated woman," Alex says.

"Oh, you have no idea." George runs a palm over his bare scalp. "It's just— You know what? I can't do this. I'm not going." He stands abruptly, taking his phone from his pocket and tapping it rapidfire. "I'll tell Betty I'm tied up. She can handle everything, she's good at this sort of stuff."

Alex stays on the couch, his hand still hovering in the air where George's shoulder had been. "Huh? What do you mean? Why can't you go?"

"I just can't," George says, still texting. He shakes his head. "Mom wouldn't want me there anyway."

"Come on, why would you say that?" Alex forces his voice to be gentle but not patronizing. He thinks of his own mom; he thinks about her every day, but this time the flash of memory is brighter: her chapped, calloused hands lifting him up above the waves. Alex blinks the picture away. "I'm sure your mother loved you."

A joyless laugh. "You don't—didn't—know my mother," George says. He stops texting. Just holds the phone tightly in both hands. "When I broke the news that Martha and I were separating, mom told me that divorce was a sin and God would never forgive me."

Alex sucks in a breath. "Okay. That's really fucked up."

"Oh, she was on a roll at that point. Said I would die alone, that I'd always been a disappointment, that she sure was glad dad wasn't alive to see this. You know. Her greatest hits." His hands start to shake, and he pockets his phone as if to hide them. "The idea of sitting in a church surrounded by her horrible friends and listening to everyone lie about what a nice person she was— I'd rather shove bamboo under my fingernails."

"Wow. That's an image." Alex winces. "Listen, if you really don't want to go to the funeral, you don't have to. No one can force you to show up."

"Damn straight," George mutters. 

Alex knows he shouldn't press, not when George seems so upset, but he can't help but ask. "Did you ever tell her you might be gay?"

"Are you kidding?" George snorts. "What would be the point? Her view of me couldn't get any dimmer. No. No, I couldn't tell her. She would have eviscerated me." He sucks in a breath. "And for all of that, I still miss her. Isn't that stupid?"

Alex thinks about his father. About the letters that he'd sent that went unanswered, the phone calls where the line just rang and rang and rang. The later Googling, the Facebook messages that didn't merit a response. He knows he should hate him, but if his father got in touch tomorrow, he'd still jump at the chance to meet him. "No," he says quietly. "It's not stupid at all." 

He reaches out a hand, and after a moment of hesitation, George takes it. Allows himself to be pulled back down on the sofa. They sit there, side by side, hands in their laps, for a long while. 

Finally, Alex says, "If you really don't want to go to the funeral, don't go. But things are different for you now. You're living your best life despite whatever your mom thought. She can't say shit to you anymore. If it'll give you closure, I think you should go." 

"You think I should go to my mom's funeral...out of spite?" 

That gets a small laugh out of Alex. "Sure. Otherwise, you might feel like you were always afraid of what she might think. Not to speak ill of the dead but middle finger to that, right?" 

George actually smiles, almost. "As tempting as that sounds," he says, "I'm not sure I could handle all those people. The cousins, aunts, the family friends...I haven't spoken to any of them since the divorce. The prospect of facing them alone is— Well. Daunting." 

It's out of Alex's mouth before he can think it through: "I'll go with you." 

George's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you serious?" 

"Yeah. If you want." 

"It's just— That's very thoughtful, Alexander, but after that shouting match we just had—" 

"What, that?" Alex makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Who cares. Friends fight. One time I didn't speak to Mulligan for a week because he said Pacific Rim was overrated." 

George doesn't laugh. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, actually. "Please don't think you have to do this because of what I said earlier. I didn't mean it. You're not selfish, not at all." 

"I can be," Alex says. "But that's not why I offered." It doesn't matter why he's offering; George doesn't need to hear about his memories of his own mom's funeral and how alone he'd felt without any family or friends to help him. How it felt to be the only person sitting in front of her coffin at the wake. He looks away as if the far wall is suddenly very interesting. "Either way is fine with me, no skin off my nose." 

"I would very much like you to come with me," George says, quiet. 

"Then it's settled." Alex whips out his phone, already searching for train tickets. "Now. What's the name of this podunk town we're going to?"


	6. The Funeral

Alex climbs out of the taxi and shrugs into his black suit coat while he surveys the funeral home looming before him. For all its midcentury dullness, it's a welcome sight. The early morning train ride had been a blur of dozing and watching George read trade magazines in the seat next to him; he's glad to be moving. Wishes they could move faster. The sooner this day is over, the better. 

George finishes up paying the driver and joins Alex in staring up at the building. They keep standing there as the cab trundles away. George makes no move to go inside, so Alex doesn't either.

"If you've changed your mind…." Alex says.

"No, I'm all right. Just." George takes a deep breath. "Preparing myself."

He looks okay in his black suit, white shirt, black tie combo. Classic mourner. Maybe only a little travel-creased from the train, but that's to be expected. Alex straightens the lay of his own tie—he'd opted for monochrome, black on black on black—before piping up again. 

"People will ask me who I am," Alex says. "What would you like me to tell them?"

"The truth? Just say you're my friend."

"Okay." Alex tips his head in thought. "You don't think anyone's going to get the wrong idea?" He's not exactly going to pass for straight, and George bringing a much younger guy to this shindig is going to raise some eyebrows.

A heavy sigh, a shake of George's head. "Maybe. I don't know. I guess I don't actually care. Unless you do?"

"Nope." The potential for fucking with George's snobby relatives is the only real bright spot in Alex's whole day, as far as he can tell. "Wanted to make sure you were aware, is all."

George takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. Alex can see the military man now, just a glimpse of him beneath the funeral suit. Mission time. George strides toward the entrance, and Alex follows at his side.

"The wake should end in a few hours," he says as they walk. "When we leave for the church, I'll have some pallbearer duties to take care of. Then there's the service, then the procession to the cemetery, then the reception at Betty's—" 

"Hey, don't worry about all that right now. Just get through one part at a time," Alex says as he holds the door open for George. "Trust me, I'm an old hand at this."

George raises a questioning eyebrow, and Alex bites his lip, realizing how flip he must sound. 

But George doesn't scold him for it, just says in that soft, quiet voice, "I'm sorry. I know I'm not the first person to lose someone." His hand twitches forward before retreating, before it can actually brush Alex's. "You don't have to tell me the details, but if today gets to be too much for you…."

Alex swallows the protests that come so easily to him, and instead nods. "I'll let you know."

They go inside and follow the signs that have George's last name on them. It's freezing in the funeral home, air conditioning on full blast, and it smells like a cross between a hospital and a grandma's purse: sterile and aged. The carpet under Alex's shoes is a thick, muffly purple. The tinny strains of classical music that must be thought of as soothing float from unseen speakers. 

When they finally reach the correct room, Alex's heart sinks for two reasons: one, there are a lot more people in attendance than he'd expected for a bitter old woman, and two, the wake is open casket. For all his mourning experience, this is the first one Alex has ever seen. Who in their right mind would want their dead body up there on the little stage for everyone to see? George's mom, apparently.

She looks smaller than Alex had expected. A slip of a woman, wrinkled and aged, her white hair arranged in whorls around her heavily made-up face. Her hands are folded on her chest, brown against her dress of mossy green. 

"George, you made it." A woman in a sensible pantsuit approaches, incredibly tall even in her black flats. Built along the same lines as George and with a matching face. She takes George by the shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Hey sis," he says, low enough that Alex can barely hear it. He squeezes her with a little grunt before pulling away and swooping his arm toward Alex. "Betty, this is my friend Alexander."

Alex shakes her hand. He knows how much he hated hearing _so sorry for your loss_ and _she's in a better place_ and, worst of all, the insipid _is there anything I can do?_ for days on end, so instead he just says, "Damn, that is some family resemblance."

"Yes, isn't it unfortunate?" Betty says with dry humor. Her handshake is firm, a little on the painful side. 

"Just the opposite." Alex gives her a smile. Charm. He can turn it on when he needs to. "Do they grow all you Washingtons this size?" He glances around the room, noticing quite a few people that surpass the six foot mark. "I guess they do."

George is standing between them, watching them both carefully as if he expects an imminent explosion. But Betty just smothers her laugh in her hand. "I wish we could have met under happier circumstances, Alexander," she says, and turns as an older gentleman touches her elbow and whispers something in her ear. She nods to him, then says to George, "I'll be right back. Are you okay making the rounds?" 

"Yeah, we'll be fine," he says. Alex can't help but notice that royal we. Neither can Betty, apparently, as she heads for the hallway with an arch look in George's direction.

Alex takes a deep breath. That could have been much worse. He mentally crosses off George's sibling from his to-do list.

George ushers him toward another enclave of towering, broad-shouldered people. "Here, let me introduce you to my brothers." 

"Brothers?" Alex blinks.

It's a blur: John, Sam, and Charlie and their wives and kids. There's the widow of George's oldest brother, who apparently is dead, so there's that. Then of course there's the assorted in-laws and aunts and cousins and cousins-twice-removed and more kids belonging to all these classes of family members. And the stooped, elderly friends of the family, old neighbors and priests, housekeepers and babysitters. Alex is subjected to more handshakes than he's ever had in his life. At one point he loses George in the crowd and has to fend for himself against the endless torrent of questions.

"So how did you know Mary?"

"Ah, so you work for George?"

"No? Then how—?" 

"Ah. Hm. Well."

"Terrible tragedy, isn't it?"

After hearing some great-aunt say for the fiftieth time that Mary Washington was a saint, Alex spots George standing in front of the casket with his head bowed. He excuses himself politely from the great-aunt's small talk and makes his way over, careful not to interrupt. There's a couple of empty seats on the end of a row toward the front, so Alex takes one and just watches him in profile in case— In case what? In case George needs him? 

After a few moments, George stands straight and makes the sign of the cross, then reaches down into the coffin and touches the back of his mother's hands where they're folded peacefully over her heart. Alex can see a single tear tracking down his cheek. He's pretty jealous; Alex is a notorious ugly crier himself, snot running from his nose, bloodshot eyes, puffy face, the works. But George cries like a goddamn work of art. 

George must sense Alex's gaze because he locks eyes with him, picks his way through the milling people and slides into a chair beside him. 

"Her hair isn't curled the way she liked it," he says. His voice wavers just a little. "She'd be so pissed."

Alex digs his handkerchief from his coat pocket and offers it to George. "You okay?" 

"Yeah. Thank you." George takes it and dabs at the one perfect tear. "I know I'm just feeling sorry for myself, but I can't stop thinking that I'm an orphan now."

 _Just like me_ , Alex wants to say, but he bites his lip. Now is not the time for sad life story one-upmanship. "Hey, don't feel guilty about it. It's normal to start navel-gazing on a day like this." 

George purses his lips, nods his head, stares down at Alex's handkerchief and folds it into a neat square. "I'm supposed to be mourning mom, but right now I really miss my brother Lawrence. If he were here—" Two tears fall, twin tracks down George's face. Alex can't stop staring. 

He swallows and moves his hand to rest carefully on George's knee. George covers his hand with his own, giving his fingers a grateful squeeze. He's beautiful like this, Alex realizes. There's probably something really wrong with being this attracted to someone while they're having an emotional breakdown. 

"I'm glad you came with me," George says. 

"Happy to." Their hands part, but slowly, eyes not leaving each other. Alex's traitorous thoughts wander to the night they spent together on George's couch, and he thinks about how George might look kneeling in front of him right now. Which, holy shit, this is not the time. 

Betty appears beside George's chair and she puts a hand on his shoulder. "Got a minute? The funeral director wants to go over the instructions with the pall-bearers," she says.

"Sure, of course." George wipes his face with Alex's handkerchief and tries to give it back, but Alex just waves him away with a jerk of his hand. 

"Keep it, don't worry." A weak smile as Alex watches them go. Then he's alone in a room filled with someone else's family, an open casket, and a lingering sense of shameful lust. 

He needs a moment.

The men's room is a private affair with one toilet and one sink, far better than a row of stalls. Alex supposes it's meant for very overcome mourners to lock themselves away to have a good cry, and right now he's thankful for that kind of planning on the part of the funeral home. The welcoming feeling of being alone after having to talk to so many people—after seeing George like that—envelops him like a hug from an old friend.

Alex takes out his phone and shoots off a quick text to Mulligan: _On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is it to want to bone someone when their dead parent is in the same building?_

He's not even done washing his hands before his phone rings. 

"Hi Herc," he says as he answers.

"Alex, what the fuck?" Mulligan demands. "You made me read those words with my own eyes."

"I know, I know." Alex pinches the bridge of his nose, leans back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. "I'm sorry."

"I thought you and George were friends only. Where is this coming from? Why are you like this?"

"I don't know! Everything was normal, for a funeral. I was just doing the supportive friend thing, meeting the family and whatever." Alex sighs. "Then he cried."

"He cried." Mulligan's voice is deadpan. "A few tears and now you have to bang him? The same guy that lied to you? That you got into a screaming match with less than a week ago?"

Alex's hand gestures wildly through the air even though there's no one to see it. "You don't understand! He was like a Greek sculpture but with working tear ducts! I just looked at him and— Argh!" His fingers curl into little claws as if he can grab onto this undefined attraction he's feeling. "He's so hot."

"Alex, listen to me," Mulligan says. "Studies show that, like, ninety percent of people want to have sex after a funeral. It's a natural thing that death brings out in us."

Alex wrinkles his nose. "Studies? What studies?"

"I don't know, it's just something you always hear. The point is—"

"Sounds like an urban legend. I mean, what kind of sample size could you possibly—?"

"Would you shut up for one second? The point is, you have a habit of enjoying a position of power over other people. Yes?"

"Yes," Alex mutters. It's something he and Herc have discussed before, Alex's tendency to go for the dumb guys, the ones he can talk circles around. Also the fact that he chose a VP position for the title instead of holding out for more money. "But George isn't—" 

"George may not be stupid or young or working a dead-end job, but he's vulnerable right now. He's needy. And you, my friend, love feeling needed." 

Alex slumps. "So you think I'm just...funeral-horny? You don't think this is real?"

"I think it doesn't matter if it's real or not. You need to take a big fucking step back," Mulligan says with infinite patience. "Be there for George but for fuck's sake, don't make a pass at him. Wait a week or two; see how you feel once he's got himself back together. If you're still into him, you can act on it then."

"Yeah, you're right." Alex checks his face in the mirror, smoothes his goatee a little with his fingertips. "I'll cool my jets. Probably just getting swept up in the whole thing, like you said.

"So you'll contain yourself?"

"I'll try my best." 

"Fucking better," Mulligan says. "Get home safe." 

Alex hangs up and leaves the men's room to face another—ugh, his phone screen cannot be right—hour and fifteen minutes of this wake. He returns to the viewing room to find it's even more crammed. George is in the middle of a knot of people, shaking hands, accepting hugs, murmuring politely at all the platitudes. He catches sight of Alex and uses the excuse to break away with a somber nod to the assembly. They find a semi-quiet corner near the pile of floral arrangements and wreaths. 

"This is exhausting." George shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. "Every time I look at my watch, time seems to be going backwards."

"I know what you mean," Alex says, and makes an effort to avoid looking at George's mouth. Instead he stares at the dozens of people waiting in line to approach the casket. An elderly man is making a face at the kid chattering away at his side, and Alex nudges George, tips his head in that direction. They share a laugh, hidden with turns toward the wall. "Could be worse," Alex says sotto voce.

It becomes a little game. George points out a cousin-in-law's terrible hairdo; Alex asks about the sullen toddler who keeps trying to eat the fringe on the seat covers. Soon Alex is trying his damnedest not to snort—it's a funeral! You can't snort at a funeral—while George keeps goading him with a decent impression of his stuffy brother Charlie. 

"Stop it, I'm going to bust something," Alex hisses under his breathless laughter. 

"Yeah?" George gives him an easy smile, a rare sight for today. "Well, at least we're in the right place if you do."

"Wouldn't that be a hospital?"

"So we skip a few steps." George shrugs. "Call it efficiency."

Alex wonders if his grin would be considered inappropriate for the occasion. "Oh, is that what we're—?"

"Hello George," a woman's voice cuts in.

They turn as one toward her. She's petite, dressed in a sharp black sheath. There are diamonds in her ears and one in a pendant around her neck. Her manicure is perfect and red. Alex feels small standing in front of her, even though he's got a few inches on her.

"Martha?" George sounds stunned, but it only takes a moment for him to gather himself together and step forward to give her a hug. "I didn't know you were coming." 

Martha accepts the embrace for a two-count, her small hands on the points of George's shoulder blades, before stepping back. "Well, I thought it was only right to pay my respects." She turns her head to regard Alex. Her smile isn't cold, exactly, just wary. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." 

"No, no, you weren't—" As if only now remembering his social duties, George introduces them. "Martha, this is Alex. He's a friend of mine."

Alex isn't sure if he should offer a handshake or something; he's never met an ex-wife before. Martha decides for him, gives him a little nod while holding her clamshell purse in both hands. "It's lovely to meet you," she says. 

"Yeah, same. I—" Alex saves himself from saying _I've heard a lot about you_ at the last moment. "I'm sorry it had to be at such a sad time," he finishes. Jesus, this is awkward. All three of them, just standing around looking at each other. Alex would bolt if given the chance but he's fenced in by the ex-spouses and the ring of flowers on his left. 

"Are the kids here with you?" George asks with a strain of hope in his voice.

Martha just shakes her head. "Start of the semester. You know how it is."

"Right, of course." George puts his hands in his pockets again. "Do you know if Jack got my care package? I sent it a few weeks ago but…." 

"Oh, I'm sure he did," Martha says. "Thank you for doing that. It's a nice gesture."

"It's no trouble." A beat. "You look great, by the way."

"That's very kind. You're looking well yourself."

George bobs his head and glances around the room. Alex tries to think of a smooth way to excuse himself, give them some privacy. He's an outsider in this conversation. He has nothing to contribute. The right words are forming in his mind when George, the jerk, looks over to the doorway and says, "Excuse me, I think that's an old friend of mom's. I should say hello." 

And he leaves them. Both of them. Standing there. Together. 

Alex shares a look with Martha that borders on bewildered. She doesn't look much happier. 

They shift on their feet in stilted silence for a few moments. 

"So," Alex ventures, "were you and George's mother...close?"

Martha nearly chortles. "I was not a favorite of Mary Washington's, no. But as mother-in-laws go, I suppose it might have been worse." She casts a look in the direction of the coffin, considering. "Her kids had it tougher than I did. Have you heard about any of that?"

"Are you kidding?" Alex says, warming to the theme. It's nice to find common ground with George's ex, even if it means shit-talking the deceased. "Everyone at this thing keeps saying what a sweet lady she was. I'm dying to hear the real story."

"Well. Here's one." Martha crosses her arms over her chest and leans in conspiratorially. "The year George was deployed to Afghanistan, he made it a point to call her on her birthday. This was not an easy thing, mind you; he was out in the middle of nowhere, round the clock mission, very little communication allowed. But he managed to get his hands on a sat-phone. And when he got her on the line?" Martha's eyes sparkle. "She demanded to know why she hadn't gotten a card from him." 

"Seriously?"

"Honest to God." Martha raises one hand to the sky in testament. "That's the sort of person Mary was. Nothing George did was ever good enough."

Alex looks across the room at where George is helping an ancient woman into a pew. It's hard not to think about how good he looks when he's being gallant. "It's a shame," Alex says, "that his mom never really got to know him." 

"Hm," Martha says. Her lips purse briefly. "So, Alexander—"

"Just Alex, please." _Only George calls me Alexander_ , he thinks privately.

"All right. Alex, then. How do you know George?"

"We go to the same gym." It's a true statement, even if it's not the real answer to her question. 

"I see." Her fingers come up to smooth a non-existent flyaway at her hairline. There's something in the gesture, in the way she looks to the side, that speaks of her suspicions without words. 

"Look, Martha—" 

"Ms. Dandridge," she corrects. 

"Sorry. Ms. Dandridge. George and I, we're just friends," Alex says quickly. "That's all." 

"Oh please. There's no need to spare my feelings. I saw how you two were with each other when I walked in. Am I really supposed to believe it's completely platonic?"

"Well." Flashes of that night on the sofa play in Alex's mind. He's usually pretty good at telling white lies, but this time, he's certain the truth is written clear on his face. Martha looks unimpressed at his hesitation. 

Her hands go up, she shakes her head. "You don't owe me an explanation. George and I are no longer attached; we're adults with our own separate lives. Who he chooses to date is no business of mine." 

"Sure, of course, but honestly we're not—" 

"How old are you, by the way?" she asks.

"Twenty-nine," Alex lies, because he can't bring himself to say anything over thirty.

"Twenty-nine," Martha repeats. She smiles ruefully. "Well, fuck me." 

Alex laughs a little at that. "And I really am just a friend," he says. 

Martha drops her sharp gaze, her grin growing. "I don't mean to give you a hard time. This is all just very surreal."

"No, no, I get how this looks. It's just...not how it looks." 

"Well, even if it was exactly how it looks, George doesn't need my blessing to move on." She glances over at a small collection of people across the room who are staring at them and whispering behind their hands to each other. "Oh dear, do you think we've engendered some gossip?" 

"God, I hope so. I told one of the great-aunts that I was George's pool boy but I'm not sure if it's gotten around yet." 

"You _didn't_. Was it great-aunt Prudence?"

"Is she the one with the weird eyebrows?"

"They're Washingtons," Martha says. "They all have weird eyebrows."

"Shit, you're right."

They share a look and a grin, which causes another flurry of whispers across the room, which just makes it harder to hold in the laughter. George reappears then, smiling cautiously.

"Sorry about that. I see you two are getting along?" 

"In a manner of speaking," Martha says. She touches her hand to George's elbow. Seeing the two of them standing next to each other, even with the height difference, Alex can see the charming couple they used to make. "George, I'm sorry. I should have told you I was coming. I thought you might need to see a friendly face today, and it didn't even occur to me that you might have that part covered. If my being here upsets you, I can—"

"No, Martha, please. You don't have to leave." He cups her shoulder in his hand. "It means a lot to me that you came. As long as you're fine being here…." He looks over at Alex. Alex tries his very best supportive smile. 

"Well." Martha looks to Alex and tips her head. "I do want to see the preacher try to give the eulogy without breaking the eighth commandment."

The funeral director comes into the room then and makes the announcement that the procession to the church will begin shortly. Mourners begin filing toward the exit, heading for the parking lot. Alex guides Martha out with a hand hovering over the small of her back.

"Watch your step, Ms. Dandridge," he says, and she shoots him a knowing look.

___________________________________

The funeral is like all funerals are in Alex's experience: long but forgettable. There are fewer people at the church than were at the funeral home, and even fewer at the graveside service. Martha leaves in between, giving both Alex and George a goodbye kiss on the cheek. By the time they get to Betty's two-story colonial for the reception, the crowd has dwindled to just the closest family members. The older people and the kids have gone to bed, and the rest sit in Betty's living room, drinking strong coffee and picking at the deli platter and the crudités.

Betty's oldest son drives them to the train station to catch the 10:35 back to the city. They wait on the platform, the only two people as far as the eye can see. George sits on the bench with an oversized peace lily in his lap, which Betty insisted he take. ("People sent us too many sympathy flowers; please take one at least! That new place of yours could probably use some greenery.") Alex loosens his tie and pops his collar button open. He treads the length of the platform, checking the time on his phone. The train should arrive any minute now.

"I don't want this stupid plant," George announces suddenly. 

Alex quits pacing up and down the platform and slumps onto the bench next to him. "So ditch it. Just leave it here. Maybe someone who wants it will find it."

"Isn't that littering?" George grumbles, but he's already placing the potted lily on the concrete at his feet. "There. At least I won't have to lug it all the way home."

The train whistle sounds in the distance, and they stand to watch the train pull into the station. Seats found, Alex by the window, George by the aisle, tickets punched, another whistle, and the train starts north. Away from George's family and his hometown and this weird day that's finally over. 

Alex looks over at George, watches him rub at his eyes in a way that he knows means he's beyond tired and fighting off a headache. Alex's chest goes tight at the picture he makes. Stop it, he tells himself. Now's not the time.

"Hey, you survived," he says instead, bumps their knees together companionably. "You did it."

"Just barely." George tips his head back against the seat cushion with a groan. His eyes slide shut. "Jesus, when Martha showed up— Sorry about leaving you alone with her, I just couldn't deal with all of that right then." 

"Don't worry. That's what I was there for. Human shield." Alex grins. 

George cracks open one eye and looks at Alex. "Was it that bad?"

"I managed," Alex says, sidestepping the fact that Martha seemed convinced that they're dating. Then, to get further away from the strange conversation with George's ex: "Do you mind me asking, what was all that about your stepkids? Are they not in touch with you or something?"

The eye closes again. George crosses his arms over his stomach as if settling in for the long haul. "I don't blame Pat and Jack. The separation came as a shock to them. Martha and I tried to explain as best we could but…. They felt like they had to choose sides. It's only natural they picked their mother."

"But you're their dad," Alex says. He does some quick math in his head. If the kids were in college now, and George married young— "You're the only father they've ever known, right?"

George sighs, turns to stare across the aisle out the opposite window. "Yes, but I wasn't always around. I was overseas a lot, working crazy hours when I was home. Martha ended up raising them by herself mostly. That's something I regret now."

Alex thinks about the photos in George's wallet that he'd been shown with such pride the night they met. The framed picture in George's bedroom. "What's really important is that you love your kids."

George turns back to face him. His eyes are wet with tears. "I do. More than anything," he says. "I'd die for them. I'd kill for them. And they won't even return my calls anymore."

Alex's feels himself start to well up. Shit. He ducks his head, blinks hard. "I'm sorry, that's— That's hard."

"Maybe I should give them some space." George shakes his head. "The voicemails and the emails and the care packages. I'm sure they'd appreciate it if I quit bothering them." 

Now Alex is really about to cry. His thoughts churn around all the times he'd tried to get in touch with his dad only to be met with silence. He can feel his nose about to run. He sniffs, rubs the blade of his hand under it quickly. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" he asks, voice shaky. 

George looks at him. "Alexander, are you—?"

Alex barrels ahead. "Can you, uh, promise me you won't give up on your kids? Just, promise me you'll keep trying. Even if they never answer you, keep the line open. You never know when they might realize—" Great, here come the tears. His face is burning hot, his nose is dripping like a bad faucet. He scrubs at his face, ashamed. 

George's lips part in horror. "Of course. I would never give up, I—" He reaches out and puts a hand on Alex's shaking arm. "They're my children. They're supposed to hate me sometimes. But I'll always be there for them if they need me, no matter what. That's my job." 

A sob burbles up from Alex's throat. He thinks of his own father, faceless, invisible. "Okay," he manages to say between sniffs. "Good."

"What brought this on? Are you all right?"

The train car is dark and empty except for them. Street lights flash by as the train moves through little towns and suburbs. George's face is illuminated and shadowed in waves, and Alex can't help but think of how he loves that face. 

His story comes tumbling out. All of it, his dad, his mom, the hurricane, the island. And George listens. And he doesn't say a word, just keeps his hand on Alex's arm and squeezes when the story gets especially bad. Then it's over, and George is handing him the borrowed handkerchief, and Alex wants to laugh hysterically because it's all so absurd. 

"I'm sorry," he says after he blows his nose. "You were supposed to be the only one having a good cry today." 

"I don't mind sharing," George says gently. "Especially when it's with you."

Alex looks at him and feels his heart pressing up against his ribs. It feels so full. This can't just be lust, he thinks. This can't just be attraction. This is a man that Alex wants to hold in his arms. Wants to kiss his temples and his eyelids. Wants to do a million sappy, dumb things for because it's _George_ and he deserves all of it. It doesn't feel like this with anyone else.

God, Alex is afraid. He can't seem to catch his breath, the air is too thin. Words won't come but he needs them now. He needs to tell George—

"I've been meaning to tell you," George says, interrupting his thoughts, "thank you again for coming with me today."

"George—" Alex croaks.

It must sound like a protest because George waves it away. "No, I'm serious. You're a true friend. And that's more important than I gave it credit for. You were right. I was only latching onto the idea of you because I was afraid of being alone."

Alex blinks. A late tear falls. "You were?" 

"Yeah. I can see that now. It's better this way." George gives him a soft smile. "I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry." 

Later, Alex will be pretty sure he mumbled some standard acknowledgement of George's apology but he won't remember for the life of him what he said. He only sees George's kind eyes, his answering nod. 

"Great." He settles back in his seat. "We should try and get some sleep. It'll be a few hours yet before we're back home."

"Right, yeah," Alex says. But Alex doesn't sleep. He stays awake and listens to George snoring next to him, watches his neck crook at a painful angle, and wishes there was some way he could reach out and coax George to lay his head on his shoulder. But he can't do that now.

He can't do anything now.


	7. The Club

Alex stares up at his ceiling and listens to the light sounds of slurping between his legs. The guy is clearly trying his best—incredible commitment to the cause, A for effort and all that—but it's difficult to concentrate. Even when the blowjob turns into Alex getting eaten out, which he's normally very happy to be, he finds his thoughts wandering. He knows it's rude; Ben isn't just a random fling. This is like the second or third time they've fooled around, and it's always been great. Ben's exactly his type: under twenty-five, skinny, a little air-headed but in a cute way. Everything on Alex's hit list.

It's just impossible to stop thinking about George.

Ben's head pops up from between his knees. "You okay? You're not usually this quiet."

"I'm good, it's good." Alex reaches down a brushes a thumb over Ben's slick lips. "You've just made me speechless with that mouth of yours."

"You're so full of shit," Ben says with a little smile before diving back in.

It _is_ good, good enough to make Alex arch halfway off his mattress. Get your head in the game, he tells himself. Forces himself to respond with a few noises, ones he knows make Ben shiver. His fingers dig into the sheets for dramatic effect, all for Ben to feel the shift of the bedclothes beneath them.

It's a lot of effort when he should just be lying there, enjoying himself. He focuses on the way Ben's got his ass cradled in his hands, tipping his hips up to meet his mouth, nudging his leg higher so he can really get in there.

Alex wonders if George would eat ass like this. He'd probably be a little more tentative. Gentle, even. At least until he got his bearings, in which case he might—

Fuck, he shouldn't be thinking about George when he's got someone else's tongue inside him. It's just bad manners. Then again...it's not hurting anyone to fantasize privately, right? Alex is pretty sure Ben is picturing some hunky movie star when they're together like this. It makes it easier to get off; everyone does it. It doesn't mean anything.

Alex lets his eyes slip closed, lets the sounds of Ben working away at him fade into the background. It's not as hard as it should be, imagining Ben's slim hands being replaced by George's big, calloused ones. That sure mouth becoming a little softer, more cautious. George peeking over the rise of his dick to survey his flushed body. George's cock humping against his calf while he lays between Alex's legs.

 _Is it good like this?_ George would ask. _Am I doing it right?_

And Alex would cup a palm over the back of his head, urge him steadily back into place, tell him oh yes, he's doing just fine.

 _That's perfect, George_ , he'd say just before he—

"Alex, what the hell!" Ben pulls away abruptly, knocking his hand away where it had dug into hair. Shit, Alex knows Ben doesn't like that sort of touching. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it.

"Sorry, sorry, got a little carried away," he says, holding up his hands in apology. "Didn't mean to get grabby."

"Not just that, asshole. Who the fuck is George?"

Alex lays there, still spread and hard, gaping like the shithead he knows he is. "Did I, uh, say that out loud?"

Ben gives him a look of rageful disbelief before standing up to pull on his jeans.

Alex lifts a beseeching arm. "Oh, come on! I'm sorry, okay? You don't have to go."

"I really do, actually. Yeah. This is me going." Ben finds his shirt on the floor by the TV, yanks it over his head in jerky motions. Stuffs his feet into his shoes in two quick kicks.

"Look, that was messed up. I feel like a huge dick, all right? Let me make it up to you," Alex says, bounding from the bed in an attempt to wrap his arms around Ben's waist so he can bite at his neck the way he likes.

Ben pushes him aside before he can connect. "I'll pass." He grabs his messenger bag from the sofa and stalks toward the door. "Piece of advice?" he calls over his shoulder as he goes. "Get your shit together, Hamilton."

The slam of the door echoes through the tiny studio apartment. Alex flops back onto his sweaty sheets, naked, erection withered, and consumed with the urge to curl up and die.

 

___________________________________

After the fiasco with Ben, Alex finds himself dreading his regular workout with George at the Y. It feels like the truth of what he did, what he feels, is written plain on his face. But if it is, George either doesn't notice it or ignores it, because he doesn't seem different. He chats while they take turns spotting each other at the weight bench, the usual stuff: annoyances at work, a movie he saw with Lafayette last weekend, a new restaurant he'd like to try.

Alex makes an effort to act normal, which is a surefire way to come across as distinctly _ab_ normal.

"You feeling okay?" George asks when they finish with the barbells. His arms flex unfairly as he stretches.

"I feel fine." Alex uses his hand towel to wipe some sweat from his brow, takes a swig of water. "Why? You saying I look like shit?" He wouldn't be surprised if he did; he hasn't been sleeping well.

"No, you just haven't make any snarky comments about my clothes or my tennis shoes or my—"

"Those Reeboks are old enough to drink in every state," Alex says quickly.

George chuckles. "That's more like it. Were you holding that in to be polite or something?"

Alex coughs into his hand, looks over at the free weights on the far wall as if assessing which ones to use next. "Well, I wouldn't want to damage your fragile ego too much. Thought I'd give you a little break today."

A wide smile. "That's really decent of you, Alexander." George's hand comes up to squeeze where Alex's shoulder meets his neck.

Alex fights the wave of want that one small touch sets off in his belly.

"What are friends for?" he mutters as they head for the free weights.

Later, they emerge from the gym to find the sidewalks lined with food trucks and ice cream carts. Some kind of street fair. There's confetti on the ground. Alex makes a face at it. He's not really in a confetti sort of mood.

"What do you think?" George turns to him with a sly look in his eyes. "Ditch the usual protein shake and get some tacos?"

"I don't know, I should probably—" Alex feels his phone buzz in his pocket and checks his notifications. It's a message from some guy on Grindr. An offer, simple, tonight, no strings. The best kind of message in Alex's opinion, the sort of thing he'd normally jump at. He's never in his life passed up a guaranteed lay. Not once.

"Got plans?" George asks, raising his eyebrows at Alex's phone.

Alex looks at the message for one more moment, then shuts off the screen. "Nah," he says. "Tacos sound really good, actually."

He can do this. He can be friends with someone he was attracted to; look at John, at Lafayette! He can even be friends with someone he has—had—might have had feelings for. It's all part of being an adult, he figures: learning to live with the stuff that doesn't go your way. And if George doesn't want him (never really wanted him) then Alex has to respect that. Like George had said, a friend is more important in the grand scheme of things anyway. Friends stick around.

So at least there's that.

A weight settles in Alex's stomach as he pays for their order with extra hot sauce. They eat while they walk, little cardboard boats in one hand, dripping tacos in the other. George can't seem to keep his filling from splattering back into his container, and Alex needles him about it, talks a big game with oblique references to his superior heritage. Then his piece of fried fish slides free to land with a wet smack on the sidewalk. George laughs so hard, Alex is tempted to push him into traffic.

He doesn't, though. Alex is a pretty good friend, after all.

 

___________________________________

A couple weeks go by. Alex goes to work, goes to the gym, has a couple drinks with the boys on the weekend, tries that new restaurant with George and John, and it's pretty nice. He gets a few more messages from lays both old and new looking to see if he's up for it, but Alex decides he's taking a breather. Even Olympians have to pace themselves, he reasons. He'll get back to his usual schedule of fucking and sucking once he's back on solid ground. Any day now, he'll feel like his old self again.

Mulligan announces via group text that his upcoming birthday will be celebrated with drinks and dancing at a nightclub. It's the big three-oh, and he expects everyone to be there. George, nerd that he is, replies all with a thumbs up. Alex tries to picture George at one of their regular clubs. It's pretty hilarious, he has to admit. Could be fun to watch him awkwardly navigate the sea of dancing bodies. And of course he'd never miss Mulligan's big night.

He dresses carefully for that evening: his good jeans that cling in a way that makes his hips seem impossibly narrow, the tight tee shirt that he'd found at a clothing swap, bright green with _Springfield Musical Theatre Retreat 2011_ emblazoned across the chest in white script. It's a ridiculous thing, soft in that thrift store silk kind of way, and over the years it's made a dozen cute guys come up to him to ask about his nonexistent background in local musical theatre. Who knows, maybe it's the lucky charm he needs to get out of this weird slump.

When he arrives at the club, his friends are already there. George and the boys are sprawled on a couple of couches that line the wall, beer bottles making wet rings on the cocktail tables in front of them. Adrienne is at the bar, negotiating a handful of florescent pink shots over the heads of the other patrons. There aren't many people out on the dance floor yet, but the place is getting busy.

Hercules stands to hug him hello. Alex has to shout into his ear to be heard over the DJ. "Happy birthday, old man! How's it feel?"

"Feels great! I'm here, I'm alive, I got my sweetie-pie—" He reels in John by the hand and kisses him noisily on the neck. "Life is good."

From the goofy smile and the reddening eyes, Alex can tell his best friend is already well on his way to tipsy. Mulligan, meanwhile, spots Adrienne struggling with her shots and rushes to help her carry them all. Alex watches him go and says to John, "Let me know if you need any help pouring him into a cab at the end of the night."

John laughs and shoves at him. "Don't worry so much. Have a drink or two," he says, then with a waggle of his brows, "but no more than that, Mr. Moderation."

"Yeah, yeah. How's it feel to be dating a geriatric?"

"Amazing. In fact…." John actually blushes, his freckled skin pink under the changing lights of the club. He switches to Spanish. "I'm going to propose soon. Next week, if the rings get here on schedule. Don't say anything; he knows it's coming but I want there to be some surprise still."

Well, if John is looking for surprise, he finds it on Alex's face. He manages to squeak out, also in Spanish, "You're going to propose? To Mulligan?"

"Yes, who else?"

"No, it's just— You've only been dating for—" Alex stops to think. How long has it been?

"Over three years now," John reminds him gently. At Alex's shocked expression, he grins. "I know! Where has the time gone?" He turns to watch Mulligan attempting to wrangle Adrienne's shot glasses, sloshing one onto his shoe. "And for however much we have left, I want to spend it with him."

The bottom of Alex's stomach falls out. His friends are growing up, moving on. The first of them to get married like real adults. After this, maybe Lafayette and Adrienne will make it official. It's hard not to feel a little left behind.

He gathers himself. Tonight's not about him. "Well, congratulations. I know you're going to make Mulligan very happy, and I'm happy for you." He gives John a hug, resting his chin on John's shoulder for just a moment. He closes his eyes and thinks about how fast the years have flown by.

John squeezes him tight. "Thanks, cousin." Then, pulling away, "So is it just me or is George looking very sharp tonight?"

They turn not at all discreetly to look at George, who hasn't noticed him yet, is too wrapped up in some gesture-filled conversation with Lafayette. He's lounging on the couch with his arms resting along the back. Those arms don't look bad in the clingy shirt, not bad at all. It's one of the shirts Alex had picked out, he recognizes it right away. He's wearing a bracelet of braided leather on one wrist, which must be new. Its silver closure flashes when it catches the light.

Alex turns back to John. "He looks okay," he says. Then, in English, "Hey, what am I, chopped liver?"

A roll of those expressive eyes. "You look great too." He takes Alex by the wrist and guides him to the sofa. Lafayette calls a greeting, blows him a kiss. George gives him a smile as he flops onto the cushions next to them.

"Alexander! There you are," he says.

"Here I am," Alex confirms. The news about John's imminent proposal is making his head spin, but he focuses on the here and now as best he can. He waves a hand at the dark interior of the club, lit only periodically by flashing neon. "So what do you think? When was the last time you were in a place like this?"

"Well, if you mean the last time I was in a dance club? The late '90s. If you mean the last time I was in a gay club?" George shakes his head. "Never."

"A night of firsts." Alex picks at the leather on George's wrist cuff, gives it an approving nod.

"Oh?" George raises a brow.

"Yeah, John is going to—" Alex shrugs. The music is getting too loud; he doesn't want to shout in case Herc overhears. "I'll tell you later."

Adrienne and Mulligan finally arrive with the shot glasses and they all take one, even Alex, who grimaces at the sickly sweet taste and immediately goes to the bar for an ice water chaser. He asks the bartender to put it in a lowball glass with a slice of lemon so it can pass as a gin and tonic. He doesn't feel like explaining to everyone Herc invited why he doesn't have a drink in his hand. And he certainly doesn't feel like going over his usual limit; no sense in getting even more maudlin than he already is.

Mulligan corners him right after his first sip. His eyes are dancing. "So? You never gave me an update. What's the situation with George?"

"There's no situation," Alex says, gulping down his ice water.

"So the urge has passed? You're not sweet on him after all?"

Alex gives a half-smile, half-grimace. "Just friends." So stupid, he thinks, that they're gossiping about this. Soon Herc will be married and Alex's little dramas won't mean a damn thing to him.

Mulligan's face falls. He knows Alex too well. "Did he tell you that?"

"Yep. Made it very clear." Alex stands straighter, toasting with his water. "But you know what? I'm fine with it. A friend is worth more than ten hookups, right?" He wonders if Mulligan will move out of the city after the wedding, buy a house in the suburbs, start a family and all that shit. His chest gets tight at the thought.

"True." Herc clinks his beer bottle to Alex's glass. "To friends."

"I'm not even into older guys," Alex adds as Mulligan takes a drink. Better to keep the conversation on George so he doesn't let anything slip.

"Uh huh."

"I mean, how would that even work?"

"Fair point."

"Plus I suck at crossword puzzles."

"Okay. Is that, like, code for something?" Mulligan asks.

Alex shakes his head. "Forget it. What I mean is, this was the right decision."

John appears then, tugging Mulligan toward the dance floor. "Your song!" he cries.

Mulligan cocks his head, listens to the new beat that's just starting to build. "My song," he agrees, and lets his soon-to-be fiance lead him away.

Alex watches them go as he leans against the bar. They look good together under the flashing lights. Dancing close. Giggling. Happy. He has to look away.

Across the room, he can see Adrienne coaxing Lafayette to dance as well, which is a mistake. Lafayette is a notoriously awful dancer. His one move is like— Ah, there it is. Sprinkler arms. Alex wrinkles his nose at the sight. Someone should really save Adrienne from that.

But before Alex can finish his water and come to her rescue, George levers himself off from the sofa and makes his way onto the floor. He says something to Lafayette, who laughs and gestures to his girlfriend. Adrienne nods heartily, and George starts dancing with her.

Really dancing. Like, really well.

Alex watches dumbfounded as Adrienne is led through a series of spins and turns, squealing with joy as George guides her. She's graceful, moving beautifully now that she's paired with George. And George is just— His face is radiant.

He looks over Adrienne's shoulder and catches Alex's gaze, gives him a sheepish shrug as if to say, _Oh, I guess I forgot to mention I'm the world's best dancer. Sorry about that._ Alex dredges up a smile in response, and then George and Adrienne whirl away.

Alex downs the rest of his water and leaves the glass on the bar. He needs some air.

He steps outside, glad to be out of the stuffy atmosphere of the club for just a moment. He's alone on the sidewalk save for the bouncer at the door and one guy standing—

Oh great. Alex curses to himself as they make eye contact.

"Alexander!" Friedrich takes his cigarette from his lips and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. "I knew George would be here tonight; I should have guessed— Ah, but how have you been?"

"Fine. And yourself?" Alex eyes him carefully.

"Just perfect. I am waiting for my young gentleman friend; Pierre is perpetually late, but it is part of his charm." Friedrich grins, digs around in his jacket pocket and produces his pack of cigarettes. They're French, same brand that Lafayette used to smoke until Adrienne asked him to quit. He shakes them in Alex's direction. "Would you like one?"

"No thanks," Alex says lightly.

"Of course. George mentioned you live a healthy lifestyle." The cigarettes disappear back into his jacket. "Of a sort."

That earns him a narrowed-eye look from Alex. "Do you and George discuss me often?"

"Oh, it is nothing. Just the usual titters of old men." Friedrich takes a drag, the end of his cigarette flaring briefly orange. When he's finished, the smoke curls from his nostrils in twin streams. "He did tell me that you two exchanged words after I left the bar a few weeks ago. I am sorry to have been the cause, however unknowingly, of any ill will between you."

"It's fine, we—" Alex crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the smooth plaster facade of the club. He wishes he did smoke, just to have something to occupy his hands. "We got over it."

Friedrich brightens. "That is good! How very—" He stops. Seems to examine Alex's face for a moment. "You do not seem elated by this. Is it really so difficult for you, Alexander, to be with an older man?"

"With a—? Wait, what are you talking about? Because George and I are just friends."

Friedrich's eyes go wide. His mouth turns into a tiny O. "I see," he says. Fidgets with his cigarette. "My English is not the strongest. I misunderstood, apologies."

"You thought we were, what, fucking? Dating?" Alex stares at him. "Didn't George tell you in any of your little gossip sessions? He's not interested."

Now it's Friedrich who's staring. Right before he bursts out laughing.

Alex frowns at him, watches him double over on the sidewalk, clutching his side with his free hand. "You find that funny?" he asks.

"I very much do." Friedrich straightens and wipes away an actual tear. "Dear Alexander—"

"Just Alex is fine."

"Dear Alex! I do not know how you could think George disinterested. From what he has told me, he is interested. Quite interested, in fact."

"Not in me," Alex says. "At least, that's what he said."

Friedrich's handsome face contorts. "Then he has lied to you again," he says sharply. "Maybe it is not my place to say, but— No." He shakes his head. "I have found a very close friend in George, and I know his mind. When he speaks of you?" His cigarette traces arcs through the air as he gestures. "His voice goes soft. Warm. It is a strange and beautiful sound. A sign of true feeling."

Alex huffs a laugh through his nose. "Seriously? I'm supposed to buy that? Even if he did have 'true feelings,'" he makes air quotes around the words, "who cares? Obviously they're not strong enough for him to act on them."

"Perhaps he—" Friedrich freezes. "Oh _Scheisse_."

"What?" Alex turns to look where Friedrich's eyes are fixed, but there's nothing there. "What is it?"

He shakes himself back to life. "I betray a trust by telling you this," Friedrich says quickly, "but no matter. When last we spoke, George told me he was done waiting. That he was tired of his self-imposed celibacy. I assumed he was referring to you! To his obvious want of you!"

"Well, he wasn't," Alex says. "Obviously."

"Yes, yes, I see that now. But tonight—" Friedrich turns to look at the door of the nightclub as if he can stare through the layers of doors and walls to the dance floor within. "I believe our dear George is—how do you say?—on the hunt."

Alex feels the blood drain from his face. "Don't be ridiculous. He's here for a birthday party. He's just goofing around, dancing with our friends."

"And what if he is looking for a lover at the same time, hm?"

"Please stop saying 'lover.' It's weird."

Friedrich ignores him. "Suppose George thought he must remain your friend or lose you entirely. You could not blame him, no? Not after that fight you had. And so he thinks he must move on, he must forget about courting you. And so he will sleep with someone tonight, a stranger probably, to find the comfort he needs."

"This is a very nice theory," Alex drawls, "but you're talking out of your ass, no offense. And anyway, George isn't like that. The idea of sleeping around makes him really uncomfortable; he told me so."

"Really?" Friedrich finishes his cigarette and grinds it beneath his shoe. "Shall we go inside and see for ourselves, then?"

"Fine," Alex says, already breezing past the bouncer, his eyes adjusting to the dark of the club, "but there won't be anything _to_ see, he's just—"

He stops.

George isn't dancing with Adrienne anymore. And he's certainly not doing anymore ballroom-jazz steps. He's in the middle of a crowd of guys now, tossing out a few salsa moves, a little bachata, getting a lot of attention. Some grinding. Which is. Fine.

Alex swallows. Totally fine.

"If I were you," Friedrich half-shouts in his ear over the music, "and I wanted to be in George's bed tonight, I would not wait. I would act very fast indeed."

Alex watches as George swings around a cute guy with a stiff-billed Nets cap, both dancers laughing. Hat-guy stops, mimes drinking something, and George nods, still moving his hips. Hat-guy heads to the bar with a brush of George's arm, and Alex watches him go.

"Are you sure about this?" he shouts back at Friedrich. "About how George feels?"

"My friend," Friedrich smiles gently, "nothing in this life is guaranteed, but you do not strike me as the type to shy away from a gamble." A skinny kid, about five years younger than Alex, pops up at Friedrich's side, exclaiming in French. Friedrich answers in the same, hugging him close. Alex ignores their rapid-fire conversation. He watches George on the dance floor instead. Now that Hat-Guy is gone, another dude in a baseball jersey has locked onto George with laser focus, making his way closer.

Alex makes a decision. He steps forward, moves in to fill the empty space in front of George. He's dancing, ostensibly, moving his hips to the beat. George lights up when he sees him.

"This place is great!" he shouts over the music. "Some guy's getting me a beer! I think his name's Nathaniel!"

Alex bites his lip in an over-exaggerated wince. "You doing okay?" he shouts back.

"Yeah, I'm good. Right? This is good." He gestures to the pulsing bodies all around them. He's still dancing, and Alex is dancing, but it's not like they're dancing together. There's at least a half-foot of empty air between them.

Alex leans in close to be heard, yelling directly into George's ear: "You sure? You look a little uncomfortable with all the, you know, touchy-feely stuff."

George pulls back, frowning. "I do? I thought I was handling everything really well."

Alex shrugs. "Yeah, you just look—" He moves in closer. "A little stiff."

A blink. Those hips slow, stutter in their movements. There's a small smirk growing on George's lips. "So I should be...less stiff?"

There's a way of looking down, then up through his eyelashes that Alex has mastered. He does this, then turns around and plants himself right against George, leaning back into the harbor of his hips, grinding his ass against the beginnings of the erection he finds there.

He picks up George's hand and places it on his waist. "Just pretend I'm Michael—"

"Nathaniel."

"Whatever. Pretend I'm him and just...act natural."

It starts slow, the way George pushes tentatively against him, moving them together. Then a rhythm is established, hard and aching. George's thick fingers trail from Alex's hipbone and travel underneath the hem of his tight tee shirt, teasing the sweaty skin of his belly. His breath is hot in Alex's ear.

"Is this better?" he asks, and his voice is so deep and husky, Alex has to shut his eyes with a whispered curse.

"Yeah. Now you're getting the hang of it," he says. His body moves shamelessly in one long writhe against George's, teasing his dick, pulling a groan from his throat. The music becomes nothing but a buzz of noise, a pounding beat that matches the one in George's chest and the rush of blood in Alex's ears.

"Where is this coming from?" George pants. "I thought we—"

Major distraction tactics are needed. Alex turns in the circle of George's arms and crushes their lips together. It's a messy kiss, wet. George whimpers into it.

Alex's eyes drift open. George still has his eyes closed, is still kissing him desperately. Alex's gaze wanders over George's shoulder and catches sight of what's-his-face in the Nets cap, standing at the edge of the dance floor with two plastic cups of beer in his hands, brow drawn. Then he locks eyes with Alex.

Alex keeps staring at him as he brings up a hand to cup the back of George's head and deepens the kiss. His eyes drift closed of their own volition, and when they open again, he sees that the guy is gone.

Good.

He twists around again, back to chest with George, grinding against him like his life depends on it. Over the heads of the other dancers, Alex can see Mulligan do a double-take at the sight, then gulp down the rest of his beer. He gives a discreet OK signal with his hand in case Herc is worried he's been roofied or something. Then the crowd shifts and they lose sight of each other.

George's hand finds its way back under his shirt. Alex sighs at the sensation of blunt fingernails scratching at his skin. It's too good, _George_ is too good.

"Alexander, I—" George's lips graze his ear. "You need to stop."

Alex goes still, held in place only by George's hands. He can feel his face getting heated, splotchy. Some gambles don't pay off.

He looks down and to the left, not quite meeting George's eyes over his shoulder. "Sorry. I just thought— I'll—" He tries to pull away, but George's fingers tighten on his hip and belly. They're not moving anymore, the only two people frozen in a mass of dancers.

"No, I mean—" George laughs against the back of his neck, a puff of hot breath. "You need to stop before I come in the pants you picked out for me. You've got me right on the edge."

Alex turns his head at that, unable to contain his grin. He takes George's hand from where it rests on his hip, guides it to the front of his jeans, lets him feel how hard he is too. George's gasp is sharp in Alex's ear. His fingers flex around the heavy shape of him, carefully tracing the ridge of it. Alex pushes back against George's hard cock one last time.

And once again, words tumble out of his mouth before he can consider the consequences.

"Let's get out of here," he says.


	8. The Dance

They take a cab back to George's place because there's no way they're walking for fifteen blocks while half-hard. Alex flags down the taxi right outside the nightclub and George gives the driver his address before being drawn into another of Alex's kisses. Alex can feel the heat of George's skin through his clothes, can smell his sweat from dancing on the crowded floor. He tastes the remains of the fruity pink shot in George's mouth, an alcoholic tang mixed with an earlier beer. It's almost enough to make him feel drunk, which is fitting, because as far as Alex is concerned, tonight is about acting without thinking, lust without consequences. Feeling good without...feelings. 

Alex should just stick with what he's good at, anyway.

"Wait, wait." George pulls back, panting. "Maybe we should hold off until we're home." His eyes dart to the driver. Not nervous, but— A cringe to his mouth, a squint of his eyes. Embarrassed. 

It would be cute if it weren't so frustrating. "He's seen worse," Alex says. He tries to dive back in, but George stops him with a hand on his arm. 

"It's still rude," George hisses.

"Oh for the love of— Hey buddy!" Alex knocks on the plastic partition. "You mind if I make out with this guy in the backseat? It's cool, right?"

"Long as you don't leave stains," the driver shrugs, not taking his eyes off the road, "and you remember to tip." 

Alex turns to George with a feral grin. They don't let up for air for another six blocks. 

When the taxi stops at the curb, George gives the guy a fifty dollar bill on top of the fare. "Sorry about...all that," he says. Alex laughs at the picture he makes: mouth red and wet, clumsy hands barely able to stuff his wallet back into his pocket. 

They're still all over each other when they get into George's apartment, Alex taking advantage of his lack of height to bite at the underside of George's chin. George fumbles the door closed behind him, throws the deadbolt without looking, then wraps his arms around Alex, lets him press his solid body back against the shut door. Alex loves this, the fever pitch of it, hot as George's skin where it brushes his.

"God, Alexander." George breathes against his neck. "This is crazy. If you had told me yesterday that by the end of tonight we'd be—"

It's very important that Alex doesn't let George finish that sentence. In fact, he shouldn't let George talk much at all. When George talks, he says things. Things he may not mean. Things Alex doesn't want to hear. 

He cuts him off with a bruising kiss, and George meets it wholly, words forgotten.

When Alex pulls away, his smile is in place, ready to usher George back to easy flirtation. "Can't blame me, what with those moves of yours." He nips at an ear. "Where'd you learn to dance like that, anyway?"

A smile presses to his throat. "Oh, here and there."

"Here and there?" Alex leans back, squints at him playfully. "As you do?"

"Yeah. Want me to teach you?" George asks. 

Alex blinks. "What, to dance? Not really the foreplay I had in mind." He tries to pull George back to his mouth, but George just laughs and stays exactly where he is.

"Wouldn't hurt to try. Something simple to start." George takes out his phone, taps it a few times. Must have a bluetooth hookup because music starts floating from some surround-sound speakers in the living room. Alex doesn't recognize it; it's something soft, a little jazzy, the singer crooning about moonlight.

It's a love song.

He makes a face. "I didn't know it was possible for digital music to gather dust, but yours did somehow."

"Don't be such a snob." George levers them both off the door, standing them upright with a peck on Alex's cheek. "Come on. It'll be fun." Another kiss, this one slow and searching. 

Alex has to tear his mouth away to give his answer. "Fine." Keep it light, keep it playful. One more smacking kiss. "But I get to lead."

It's not as easy as it looks in the movies. George arranges their arms, Alex's caught around his waist, his own hand covering Alex's shoulder. They take small, jerky steps across the floor. Alex feels like a fool for saying he should lead; he doesn't have a clue what he's doing.

"Step forward, glide. Forward, glide," George chants. "Don't look down. You have to trust that I'm going to follow you." 

Discomfort grows in Alex's belly, thick and hot. This exercise is pushing them a little too far into lovey dovey territory. He grimaces as they hurtle toward the coffee table, but George spins them out of the way just in time. 

"You're going to follow me right into some furniture," Alex mutters. 

"Maybe." George laughs. Then, bending ludicrously low to rest his chin on Alex's shoulder, he says, "But that's all right. I'll still go where you take me." 

Alex forgets to step. Neglects to glide. He sways a little, and George sways with him. Wrapped close around each other, barely moving now. George is too warm against him, burning hot as a campfire.

The song ends and fades away into silence.

George lifts his head from Alex's shoulder and looks down at him with an unreadable look on his face. He brushes a strand of hair from Alex's eyes. Alex stands there, frozen, his tongue unable to muster some joke or cutting comment to break this weird mood. George just stares, a smile tugging at his lips. "You are so gorgeous," he says quietly. 

A lightning strike goes through Alex at those words, the same ones George had said the night they'd met. It's an unfair blow in an already unfair fight. He has to keep his head on his shoulders. Facts are facts, and this isn't anything more than what it is. 

Time to skip the pleasantries. Get to the point. 

"Hey, you know what?" He ducks out of George's grasp, pivots until he's walking backward toward the bedroom. "We should fuck now." He strips off his green tee shirt in one swift motion and drops it on the floor as he goes. His back arches just slightly to display his hard nipples, and he brings one hand up to ruffle casually at the hair at the back of his head. It's a good pose and he knows it.

"What?" George gapes. "Like, actually fuck?" He stares at Alex's bare chest, then snaps his gaze back to his eyes. "I thought you said you didn't—" 

"I said I have to be in the right mood." Alex takes a few more steps backward. George, whether he realizes it or not, is following him, transfixed. "And right now? I'm in the right mood."

It's the only thing he knows for sure, that he'll be a decent first fuck. George should sleep with someone who won't laugh at how clueless he is, who will be patient with him. That's just the kind of ambassador to gay life that Alex is. A real friend.

He'll have to bottom for George, of course, which isn't to his usual M.O., but whatever. He remembers his own first time: a half-forgotten friend of a friend back in Nevis, a late-night meeting on some dock, the rushing of the waves against the sand in the distance, splinters in his back, a hard cock entering him before he was ready. It had been uncomfortable in the best moments, hurt like hell in the worst. He doesn't want that for George. 

But that's just common decency; it doesn't mean anything.

"Okay," George says slowly, still following him. "I mean, I'm not going to say no." Another step, then he stops. "You're sure about this?"

Alex doesn't dignify that with a response, just rolls his eyes and turns to walk down the hall. He can hear George's footsteps close behind him, rushing to catch up. He smiles at the sound.

The bedroom is clean in that fresh hotel sort of way, no clothes on the floor or draped over the reading chair in the corner, no empty water glasses on the nightstand. Alex darts a worried glance at the two picture frames on the bureau, but they're facing away from the neatly made bed, toward the door. That's a relief, at least. 

Alex kicks off his shoes, doesn't care when one rolls under the dresser. He's working at his own belt when George's big arms wrap around his waist from behind, and his fingers tangle with Alex's. 

"What's the rush? Can't I undress you?" George kisses his ear as he takes over the task. 

Alex allows it, though he huffs in complaint. "Just trying to get to the main event. But if you want to waste time—"

"It's not a waste." George's palms smooth over his bare belly, fingertips dipping below the waistband of his now-undone jeans. "I want to take my time. I've never seen you nude before. That last time you came over, you didn't even take off your shirt." 

Alex snorts. "George, you see me take my shirt off in the locker room literally all the time." He's kind of glad George can't see his face in that movent; he can feel it heating up, because now he realizes— 

"I never look at the gym. Feels like cheating." George kisses along the back of his neck, "I wanted to, but I knew it was wrong." 

"Okay, well, that's just ridiculous. It's a locker room," Alex mutters. 

"I know. But I do all kinds of ridiculous things for you." George turns him around in the harbor of his arms, crooks a finger under Alex's chin, brings their gazes together. His eyes are warm.

Alex swallows and breaks away from George's hold for the second time tonight and gets some distance between them. "How's the bed?" He hops up onto the mattress, bouncing a few times. "Wow. Memory foam. Very high class." 

"Glad you approve." And George kneels down in front of him to tug his jeans free from his dangling legs. Alex tries to ignore what that sight does to him, especially the way George stares up at him, like he can't believe his luck. 

It's disconcerting. Makes Alex feel strange.

He lets George divest him of his boxers and socks, even lets him stare and touch a little, and then he pulls George up to join him on the bed. He undresses George more efficiently than anything, a fast rip and tear of clothing from his body, leaving them bare and grinding against each other, trading kisses. Alex arranges them on their sides, flipping over, his ass pressing back against the hard line of George's dick in a naked parody of what they'd done at the nightclub. And George, after moaning his approval and flexing his fingers into Alex's hips, coaxes Alex back to face him. Kisses him and stares into his eyes the way he had in the living room earlier. 

Well. No need to mess around any longer. They're both hard as fucking rocks, smearing precome onto each other's thighs. George shivers every time their chests brush together, so Alex is pretty sure it's time to get this show on the road.

He bends over the edge of the bed to fish a condom out of the pocket of his discarded jeans. "Here," he says, tossing it at George's chest. It hits him square in the nipple and bounces onto the sheets. "Put that on." 

"Um." George picks up the foil square and stares at it, then at Alex. "Why do I have to wear this?"

Alex is startled at the sudden resistance. He hadn't pegged George as the type to give him a hard time about safe sex. He crawls closer and taps a finger against the condom in George's palm. "Listen, that's a deal-breaker for me. No barebacking for this ass, you understand? We use protection or we don't fuck." 

George's mouth hangs open a little. "Wait, so—?" He shakes his head. "Of course we should use protection. I just assumed you'd be the one wearing it." 

Alex frowns at him. "You thought I'd be the top?"

"Well, yeah," George says. "Have you met you?"

Alex suppresses a sigh. "George, it's your first time with a guy. You should stick with the easy stuff tonight. Bottoming can be a real drag." 

"But I won't be able to relax if I know you're not enjoying yourself, and you obviously don't enjoy that." He shrugs. "Besides, I think I might like it." 

A startled laugh breaks free from Alex's throat. " _Might_ like it? You don't know if—? Have you ever even put something in your ass before?" 

"A couple times, just my fingers." George looks down at the bedsheets. "Didn't get very far. I had no clue what the hell I was doing. But I liked the idea of it." 

The thought of George laying in bed alone, desperately trying to work his fingers into his tight hole, goes straight to Alex's dick. It leaks in sympathy, sending a shudder through his frame. He has to close his eyes briefly to get his bearings. "Did you like how it felt, though?" 

"I did." George knee-walks across the mattress until he's flush up against Alex again, skin on skin, sticking with sweat in places. His mouth hovers over Alex's, words spoken into his parted lips. "Especially when I thought of you." 

Oh _fuck_. Alex isn't sure if he says it or just thinks it, because either way he's too busy being kissed to care. He's losing his control, can feel it slipping away with every brush of George's tongue in his mouth. Stay strong, he tells himself. You can both take what you need and then, that's it. 

George's hand slides into his, pressing the condom into Alex's palm. "I want you in me," he says. "Please?

Alex's fingers close around it. He breaks the kiss, looks George in his pupil-blown eyes. Every deeply held desire in his blood is screaming to take this, take George, take what's on offer. Take it and leave. It's what Alex does. 

Still, he hesitates, and for what? It's not like George is any different from the dozens of other guys he's fucked, right? 

George watches his face closely, then pulls him nearer with a hand on his jaw. "If it's no good, we can always try something else."

Alex nods, swipes his tongue over his lips. "All right. But you should know— There might be pain," he says. "I'll do what I can, but you have to tell me if I'm hurting you." 

George nods. "It'll be okay. I trust you." 

_Why?_ Alex wants to ask him so badly. Why does George have so much faith in him? After all the times he's screwed up—? 

He blinks down at the tangle of their bodies. The condom wrapper crinkles in his hand, reminding him of what he needs to do. George needs to be prepped. A lot. 

"Got any lube?" Alex keeps a packet or two in his wallet, but they'll need more than that for George's virgin ass. 

"Yeah." George reaches over to the nightstand, rummages around in the drawer before coming up with a mostly full bottle. It's what he must use when jerking off.

When he thinks about Alex. 

Alex pushes away thoughts of George's masturbatory routine and plucks the bottle from his hand. "Hands and knees?" It comes out as a question when it should be an order. Shit, he needs to get it together. He swats at George's ass to dispel any lingering softness between them. "Easy access. Hop to it."

George goes willingly, but looks over his shoulder as he assumes the position. "Just for the first part, though, right? Where you get me ready?" His eyes take on a pleading cast. "I'd rather be looking at you, face to face. During."

He is cutting George a lot of slack here, letting him be so clingy, but it's his first time. Concessions must be made, even if it sounds a little too romantic for Alex's tastes. He sets down the lube and condom on the bed for the moment. 

"Sure, we can switch it up once you're prepped. Just let me—" He kneels behind George, puts his hands on his ass cheeks, spreads him open to see what exactly he's dealing with. Cute little pucker, actually. Damn. He teases the edge of it with his thumb, which makes George's breath hitch. 

"Sensitive?" Alex smiles and does it again, getting the same reaction.

"More like ready to come since you kissed me at the club," George says. He shoves his hips back, searching for more of Alex's touch. 

That's not going to fly. No way is Alex going to be the asshole who went too fast tonight. He sucks two fingers in his mouth, gets them nice and wet, then rubs at George's hole with just the pads of his fingers. It's clenched as tight as a fist. No quarter. 

An idea occurs to him, elegant in its simplicity. "Can I eat you out?" he asks. 

George casts a wild look over his shoulder at Alex. "Can you _what_?" 

"You know, give you a rimjob. To get you relaxed." Alex grins, gives George's hard cock a squeeze where it hangs heavy between his legs. "Don't tell me your boring porn doesn't have any rimming." 

"I've seen porn with— Jesus, yes, please. If you want to, be my guest." George faces forward again and drops his head down to the bed, muffling a groan in a mound of pillows. And Alex hasn't even started yet. 

He gives that heavy dick one last stroke and then returns his attention to George's ass. That little pucker shines wet with his spit. He leans forward. Gives it a big lick with the flat of his tongue. Tries not to grin with self-satisfaction at the noises George makes. 

His own cock is twitching against his stomach, dribbling fluid like there's no end to it. It's exciting, he can admit that. Being someone's first. Getting a chance to vicariously live through all those new sensations with them. There's a power there that Alex craves, and he's not above enjoying it. 

He laves George's hole with all his concentration, feeling the tight muscle loosen eventually. When he finally works his tongue inside, George shouts into the bedsheets. 

"Alexander," he says, "I need you, I need you."

If Alex closes his eyes, he could almost pretend it's true.

He keeps at it, even when George begs him, when he says he's ready. He's not, so there are all sorts of exaggerations being tossed around tonight in Alex's estimation. He lets his eyes drift shut and finds a rhythm there in the warm dark of George's body. After awhile, his hand gropes for the near-forgotten bottle of lube in the sheets. His slick fingers join his tongue, and George shudders like a freight train under him.

"I can't," he gasps out into his pillows. "Please, I need you inside me. I'm serious, right now."

Alex tests three fingers at once, all joined up into a triangle. George takes them. Takes a few slow thrusts of them. Alex pulls his fingers free and pets them along George's ribs to soothe him. "Okay, one second. Just breathe." He finds the condom and bounds off the bed, heading for the bathroom. 

George twists around to stare at him, open-mouthed. "Where are you going?"

"Hold on, I'll be right back." He doesn't bother to shut the door all the way. He finds some Scope on the counter, pours a little into his palm, drinks most of it, swishes, spits, rubs the rest over his lips and chin. Normally he wouldn't care about ass-to-mouth, but yeah. For George's sake, he figures, better safe than sorry. 

Plus he wants a chance to put on the condom in the relative privacy of the bathroom, where he can give the base of his dick a fierce squeeze to keep it under control. He can't embarrass himself by popping off in under a minute, and it sure as hell feels like he might if he's not careful. 

Condom on, cock choked to just the right side of ready. Alex leaves the bathroom to find George on his back, long legs spread, arranging the pillows behind his shoulders. He looks up at Alex like he's relieved that he returned like he said he would. 

"Everything okay?" he asks, and lays back like a waiting gift. 

"Yeah." He clambers back onto the bed, kisses George in apology. "Just had to get ready."

George licks his lips. "Did you use my mouthwash?" His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. "That's...actually very thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful!" Alex says, affronted. He finds the lube in the sheets, slicks up his wrapped cock. "When am I not thoughtful?"

"Right. You're the picture of thoughtfulness." George wraps his big arms around him, pulls him down to lay like a blanket over his body. Alex swears he's never felt this much skin, or heat, or thudding heartbeat before. But that's ridiculous, because it's just George. Just fucking. Nothing he hasn't done before.

He takes his lubed hand and reaches down to play at George's slicked-up hole. Making sure it's still ready for him. "So. Missionary, huh?" He cocks an eyebrow down at George. "Are you going for some kind of record? Most boring lay in the world?" 

"Shut up," George says while fucking himself on Alex's fingers, eyes closed as he takes his pleasure from them. "I told you, I want to see you while we're making love." He opens his eyes, those big, gorgeous brown eyes, and stares up at Alex. "Do you want to see me?" 

It takes a second for Alex to formulate a response. His throat's gone strangely dry. Making love, who talks like that? "Sure. I mean, good idea. I should keep a close watch on the first-timer, in case you—" 

George's hand comes up to touch Alex's cheek, fingertips brushing the ridge of his jaw. "Hey," he says in a quiet voice. "I'm not a complete virgin. I know how this works. Please don't worry about me." 

Alex ducks his head, blinking. "Who says I'm worried?" He grabs his cock, lines up the blunt head with George's wet entrance. "Ready?" 

George looks down between them, where their bodies are nearly joined, then looks back at Alex. Nods once. Doesn't break eye contact when Alex presses inside, not even when his mouth falls open and he breathes out a soft, "Oh, _oh_ god, Alexander," not even when Alex bottoms out, his balls coming to nestle tight against George's.

"Good?" Alex pants. He can feel sweat beading on his forehead. He hasn't even started fucking George in earnest yet. Why do his limbs feel as useless as cooked noodles? 

"It feels—" George does close his eyes then, his head falling back against the pillow to bare his throat. 

"I'm going to need more," Alex says in a rush. "Feels good? Bad? Weird?" He honestly can't tell; George has gone completely still underneath him, clutching at Alex's shoulders with bruising strength. 

"Good," George finally manages to say. "Very good. Can we move now?"

"We can do whatever you want," Alex tells him. 

Those eyes slip open again to look up at him with dancing laughter. "Really?" George touches his face, cups his cheek in his palm, kisses him and moves against him like he's testing it out. "I might hold you to that," he says against Alex's ear when they part for air. 

It sounds like a threat. It makes Alex's throat go tight.

Alex fucks into him carefully, a slow, fluid motion of his hips. George is like a vise, wrapped around him in ten different ways. It's suffocating, he tells himself. The heat that builds between them is oppressive. The way their skin sticks together, sweat and musk, is disgusting. 

He never wants it to end. 

George takes hold of his own right knee and brings it up high, opening himself even more for Alex, moaning when Alex goes deeper. It's funny; Alex has been with lots of different guys, hot, flexible, sexy guys. But just that one little act from George, the thought that he wants more of Alex's cock, turns him on more than he'd ever thought possible. 

"Here, I can—" Alex places his hand on George's knee to keep it in place, and George takes the opportunity to frame Alex's face in both palms, bringing him close to stare at him like he's a messenger of God. Alex rolls his hips a little faster, tries not to falter. The staring contest is starting to make him nervous.

"Alexander." George says his name like it's a password, a secret. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" 

Alex can't look away with George holding his face like this, but he can't answer either, so he's forced to stare down into George's eyes while he fucks into his willing body, moving against his hot skin. 

"Do you have any idea?" George repeats. "Do you know what you do to me every time I look at you?"

"Do you know you're the biggest sap ever?" Alex finally quips, and shakes his head to break free of George's hold. He avoids being recaptured in those big hands by dropping his head and nipping at George's ear. "Quit it. Just enjoy the moment, okay?" 

"I am enjoying it." George grabs his hand where it's still holding his knee and brings it between them to his hard cock. "Very much." His legs come up to wrap around Alex's waist, his ankles hooking together at the small of his back. 

"There we go." Alex licks his lips and fists George's dick, spreading the beads of moisture from head to base. Less lovey dovey crap, more filth. "You like getting fucked, don't you? You like taking cock?"

"As long as it's yours," George says, punctuated with a roll of his own hips, and Alex abandons his attempts at talking dirty. 

He strokes George, fucks him well, presses his hot face to George's shoulder so he doesn't have to see those eyes looking up at him like he hung the moon. No more words, he decides. No more talking. Just sex.

But George isn't done. "Jesus, you feel so good in me. Look at me, Alexander, I'm so close. I want to see your face."

Alex picks his head up, his hips never slowing. He looks down at George. There are tears caught in the tips of his eyelashes. His hand, tender and sweet, caresses Alex's temple. 

Just sex. 

"So beautiful," George whispers. 

Just sex. 

"I'm going to—"

Just.

"Please—"

"George," Alex groans, and turns his face into that warm touch. He can feel George coming in his hand, spattering their bellies and chests, making a mess. One more thrust and he's filling the condom, buried deep in George's body, locked in place as the aftershocks take him. His arms hold him up, but just barely.

George cranes his neck up to kiss his slack mouth. "Mmm," he says, a sound of contentment so deep, Alex can feel it vibrate to his dick. His arms come up to hold Alex close. They're a bundle of sweat and come and lube, and Alex can't seem to move a muscle. 

But he has to. "The condom," he says weakly. He should pull out before he softens. He tries not to go too fast, but when he slips free of George's body, he hears the quiet sigh of disappointment that means George misses being filled. The condom gets rolled off, then tossed in the general direction of what Alex hopes is a trash can. Only then does he collapse to lay on George's chest, panting for air. 

This is the moment he needs, when there's nothing but the sounds of their breathing and the buzzing in his head has calmed to a pleasant, post-fuck hum. Thick fingers trace nonsense patterns on his slick skin. A steady beat thrums under his ear.

George entwines their legs together, rolls them on their sides. Kisses Alex's flushed face. "That," he says in the small space between them, "was amazing."

"Don't mention it," Alex says, still breathless and shaking. 

The chuckle reverberates through Alex's sternum as George gathers him close. "So modest all of a sudden." He places a kiss on the very tip of Alex's nose. "You should be proud." Then, suddenly serious, "I never knew lovemaking could be so good."

There's that phrase again. It makes Alex's skin crawl. He turns his head, staring at the ceiling. "Come on, you can't say shit like that." 

"What do you mean?" George frowns. He turns Alex back to face him with a hand on his cheek. "What can't I say? 'Lovemaking?'" 

"Yeah." Alex wrinkles his nose in distaste. "You make it sound like— Like—"

"Like I might love you?" George doesn't look away. "Like I might want to be with you? Alexander—" 

Alex groans, already levering himself out of George's grip and off the bed. "Well, that was a nice moment. Short, but nice. Thanks for killing it." He grabs his jeans and one shoe, wondering where the other went. He stands there with his few items of clothing in hand and turns in a circle, searching. It's past time to run. His old survival instinct snarls at him to get a move on.

"Wha—? You're leaving?" George sits up in bed, arms propped behind him. 

"Well, it's getting late." He spots the shoe under the dresser and recovers it, quick as a viper. "I should get going."

"Seriously? You're not even going to wait for me to fall asleep this time? If you're upset by what I said—" George climbs off the bed, a monolithic gladiator blocking the way to the door with his naked body. "Can't we talk about this?"

"I don't want to talk," Alex says, and picks up his boxers from where they're balled up in the corner. Where the fuck is his shirt? It's his favorite, he can't leave it behind.

"Fine. Then at least listen."

"Don't want to do that either. Just want to leave." Alex prepares to barrel right by him, but George reaches out and clasps his hand over Alex's wrist. Not a painful grip, but tight. Unbreakable.

"What is wrong with you?" he says sharply. "You can't go out in public like this." He gestures to Alex's torso with his free hand.

"What do you mean, I can't—?" Alex looks down and sees the drying flecks of come that dot his stomach and chest. One fat droplet is hanging in his pubic hair. Ugh. 

"I can't force you to do anything you don't want to do," George says. He releases Alex's wrist. "But please, at least shower off with me. If you still want to go after that—" He shrugs, naked shoulders rolling. "I won't stop you."

A hot shower does sound really good right now. Alex feels like he's caked in grime, exhausted, his heart still beating way too fast from his exertions. "All right," he says. "A quick rinse before I go."

George's shower is nirvana. Three wall-mounted jets plus a rainfall shower head? Alex could easily spend an hour in there, sitting on the tastefully tiled floor. Instead he leans against the wall next to the little wire rack of cleansers and groans as the spray hits his tired, overtaxed muscles in all the right places.

His eyes slip closed. He can hear George stepping into the shower behind him, shutting the glass door, fiddling with some of the bottles in the rack. A warm, wet touch to his spine startles Alex from his near-daze. He whips around to find George standing frozen with a soapy washcloth in his hand.

"I can do that myself," Alex says, and grabs for the washcloth. 

George avoids his grasp neatly. "Come on. Let me." His voice is gruff, harried, but his touch is tender as he soaps up Alex's body. It's impossible to not melt back into George's hold, so Alex doesn't even try to resist. He stands there, silent, while the water pounds down all around them, and lets George wash him clean. 

His back, his shoulders, his arms, George scrubs them in turn with a gentleness that surprises Alex, given how he'd acted. His heart is still rabbiting, still telling him to head for the door and don't look back, but the soap smells like George, and he likes it. Why not enjoy it for just a moment before he leaves? 

Strong arms wrap around him. He leans back onto George, lets him drag the washcloth over his chest and belly. Twitches only a little when it swipes at his over-sensitized cock. One more touch like that and he might get hard. Now that's an idea, he thinks. Maybe if they fuck again, they won't have to speak.

He reaches a hand back, searching for George's cock where it lays soft against his ass, but George catches his fingers in his before he can find it.

"Don't," he says, strangled. 

"Right." Alex drops his arm limp at his side, suddenly ashamed. What is he doing? A minute ago he was ready to make a run for the elevator and here he is, trying to feel George up in the shower. George must think he's such an idiot. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, you're not—" George sighs and clutches the washcloth against Alex's stomach, buries his nose where Alex's neck meets his shoulder, holds him tight. 

Alex stands, blinking water from his eyes, and tries to commit the feeling of being held like this to memory.

"I don't have any shampoo," George says into his shoulder, "for obvious reasons. Sorry."

"'s okay. I don't wash it every day anyway." 

The next words are quiet under the pounding water. "I wish you'd tell me," George says. 

Alex cranes his neck to look back at him. This is a trick. He's been trapped here by warm water and loving soapy touches, and now he's taking heavy fire. Still, he can't resist talking even when he swore he didn't want to. "Tell you what?" 

"What you're feeling. What's going on in your head." Alex can feel his lips in his hair. "If you don't feel the way I do, that's fine. Just say so, get it over with, let me know. But if you do—" 

Anger floods into Alex's blood. Doesn't George get it? Doesn't he ever quit? "If I do, then what?" Alex injects all the cruel sarcasm he can into his words. "You'll be my _boyfriend_? We'll go _steady_?" He jerks out of George's arms, a little shocked when they fall away without any resistance. He sweeps his wet hair out of his eyes, bares his teeth at George's impassive, stony face. He may as well be talking to a statue. "Huh? Is that what you want?"

No, not completely hewn from marble. His eyes are still human. Full of sorrow. "I'm sorry the idea is so outlandish to you," he says. He shakes his head, looks down at their bare feet. Folds the sopping wet washcloth into a neat square. "So what was tonight about, Alexander? The dancing, the kissing, the sex— Was it all a game? Am I just part of the joke?" 

The prickly defensiveness leeches from Alex at that, and he's left standing alone under the rapidly cooling spray. He wraps his arms around his middle in an effort to keep some warmth, but it's too late. It's already gone. 

"It wasn't—" He bites his lip, tries again. Maybe he can salvage this, keep the parts that make sense. "Listen, can't two guys just have fun together once in awhile? Sometimes sex is just sex, right?"

"Not with you, it's not," George says. "Not for me." 

Alex takes a step back, needing the cold tile wall for support. His head hurts. "George—" 

"I'm trying to be honest here."

"Please just—"

"I know I'm too old for you."

"Jesus, don't—" 

"If I could turn back the clock, if I could snap my fingers and be ten, fifteen, twenty years younger—" 

"Would you stop—?" 

"—I would do it, but I can't. I can only be who I am and hope that's enough." He drops the washcloth to the floor with a splat, holds out his hands like he wants Alex to take them. "I won't promise I'll be perfect; Lord knows I'm not. But Alexander, when I'm with you, I feel as close to perfect as I'll ever be." 

Alex stands there shivering against the wall. He shakes his head. "I—" The water makes strange patterns running down George's face and body. He watches it for a moment, thinking of how he watched George sleep on his couch, on the train. He's not strong enough for this. "I'm cold. Can we—?" 

"Yeah. Come here, I've got you." George takes Alex by the arms, turns off the water, steers them out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom. He stands Alex on a bathmat to drip while he finds a fluffy blue towel, rubs it briskly over his clammy skin. 

"I'm trying hard to believe you," Alex mumbles as he watches George work. 

George stops, squints up at him with in the middle of toweling off Alex's knee. "What?"

"What you said. About how I make you feel." Alex looks up at the light fixture, lets it blind him a little while he blinks the water from his eyes. "It's, uh, not easy to believe."

"What's so hard about it?" George asks. 

"On the train, you said—"

"I thought that's what you wanted me to say." George stands, dripping, before Alex. "I thought I was respecting your wishes. Now I don't know what to think. I just know I want to be with you."

"You don't want to date me, George," Alex says to the ceiling. It hurts to admit it, but someone's got to tell the truth here.

"How many ways can I say it?" He takes Alex's face in his hands once more, guides him back to share his gaze. "I do want that. I really do."

His eyes sting. "Don't you get it? If people see us out together, they're going to point and whisper and laugh and say, 'Oh, look at the dumb little boytoy. Probably sucks that guy off for a rent check every month. Probably has major daddy issues. Probably gold-digging while he still has his looks, because it's all over after that.'" He can feel the tears coming; his face is already heating up. 

"My god," George whispers. His thumbs wipe at Alex's eyes. "Since when do you care what people think? They don't know us. They don't matter." 

"But _you'll_ care." 

"I only care about you." He kisses Alex, a soft, patient brush of his lips. "I only care that you're hurting. I had no idea— Please, I can't stand to see you cry."

"I'm not crying," Alex sobs. 

"I...hate to tell you you're wrong but—"

Alex grabs him by the shoulders. George won't let go of him either, won't stop wiping at his tears even though they're coming too fast to stop them. "George, listen to me." He takes a deep breath and says what he hasn't had the words to say before. They cut like a knife through his throat as they leave. "I'm not the person you want to take to meet your kids. I wish I was. But I'm not." 

There. It's out there in the world. A few more tears slip free as he tries to pull away, but George holds him fast. 

"Okay, now can you listen to me?" George waits for his miserable nod before continuing. "Yes, that's going to be awkward. Yes, Jack and Patty may not understand. Yes, they may never speak to me again but—" 

Alex gives a helpless whimper and makes another bid for freedom, but George won't let him go. 

"But," he says with slow deliberation, "as much as I love my children, I can't let them dictate my life. If it were up to them, I'd probably still be married to their mother." He takes a deep breath. "I know it's a lot to ask, to deal with my baggage, but Alexander— I could never be ashamed of you."

If it's a trick, if it's a lie, then it's such a perfect one that Alex is willing to let it stand. The last of his defenses crumble into dust. He's so tired, and George is looking at him with so much hope in his eyes. 

Alex takes the towel from him, wipes his nose on it not at all discreetly. "I, um." He sniffs. "This sappy stuff doesn't come easily to me but—"

"Yes?" George asks, lighting up.

Alex looks up at him. Squares his shoulders. "If you want me to stay over tonight, you can make me crepes for breakfast."

A beaming smile spreads across George's face. "Crepes? You're sure? You don't want an omelette?"

"No."

"Hash browns?"

"No."

"Toad in the hole?"

"Gross, no. Tissue paper pancakes or nothing," Alex says, smiling despite his tears. He wipes a hand across his fevered face. "Sorry, I'm such a wreck."

"You're a gorgeous wreck. And of course I want you to stay." George puts an arm around him and leads him back to the bedroom. "Come on, let's get some sleep."

They return to the bed with its sex-scented sheets and pillows that smell like George. Alex finds himself laying his head on George's broad chest, breathing in time with his lungs and listening to his heartbeat. George's arms are strong around him. 

When George speaks in a night-quiet voice, the rumble of it goes through Alex's entire body. "You won't sneak out before dawn, will you?" 

"I'll be here when you wake up." Alex yawns. "Promise." 

He only wakes up once in the middle of the night, but after listening to George's snores and the whoosh of the air conditioning, he burrows closer to George's warmth and falls back to sleep in seconds.


	9. The Compromise

When Alex wakes up, he's alone. His hand reaches sleepily for the solid, warm shape of George next to him, and when it encounters nothing but cool sheets, his eyes snap open. He sits bolt upright and surveys the empty space where George should be, the pillow that's still dented. His thoughts immediately go to the worst possible scenario: that he's been played, that George isn't coming back, that this is revenge for the time he bailed the morning after.

But the sound of pans clanking and the smell of coffee brewing drifts down the hall, and Alex calms. Slumps against the mound of pillows with a self-admonishing headshake. Stop being so paranoid, he tells himself.

He finds his jeans on the floor and gives them a sniff. Totally rank. He drops them back to the carpet and helps himself to George's dresser, where he finds a pair of blue pajama pants. They're way too big, in serious danger of falling off his hips, but they're soft and clean and smell fine. The photographs that sit on top of the bureau seem to watch him as he dresses. He examines the oldest one closely and wonders if George will ever introduce him to his ex-military buddies, or if that's out of the question.

The dresser drawer thunks when he closes it. George must hear it because he calls from the kitchen, "Alex? You hungry?"

"Yeah," he calls back. "Coming."

He pads into the kitchen shirtless, pajama pants flopping past his feet, just in time to see George work a red spatula under a wafer-like crepe and flip it expertly in its special, shallow pan. Alex smirks. He'd been right about the pan.

George looks up at the sound of Alex's footsteps, his eyes lighting up when he sees him. "Hey." He gestures to the pajama pants with the spatula. "Looking good."

"Not so bad yourself," Alex says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, sizing up George in his tight black boxer briefs. It's almost pornographic, seeing him half-naked at the stove. Like some kind of domestic fantasy brought to life. His grin widens. "Shouldn't you be wearing an apron, though? All that hot batter flying."

"I've made these enough times. You learn to avoid that." He slides the perfectly browned crepe onto a dinner plate. "How do you feel about nutella and banana filling?"

"Oh my god." Alex's mouth is actually watering. "Yes please. Just don't tell me the calorie count."

George chuckles and pours another measure of batter from a glass pitcher into the pan, swirling it into an even, thin layer. "Today's different. Calories don't matter today."

"Different," Alex says slowly. It fits. He feels like everything's a dream, just slightly to the left of where it used to be. He reaches for an empty measuring spoon that's sitting on the counter and fiddles with it. Doesn't look up. "Because we're dating now?"

He can feel George's stare on him, so heavy he's forced to look up. George stands with one hand on the handle of his pan, still shaking it back and forth.

"If you still want to," George says softly.

Alex looks down and pushes away from the counter.

"I'd understand if—" George starts to say, but he doesn't get a chance to finish before Alex barrels around the counter and plasters himself to George's back, arms locked around his waist. George gives a little sigh, leans back against him. Places his free hand over Alex's.

They stand there at the stove for a moment until Alex says, "Just so you know, I'm not so great at being a boyfriend."

"That's okay." George gives his hands a pat. "I'm pretty new to it myself."

Alex huffs a laugh into that warm shoulder. "Yeah, but you're already killing it. Cooking me breakfast in your underwear? With nutella? How am I supposed to live up to that?" It's a joke. But it's also not.

George must understand, because he says, "You've always been more than enough for me, Alexander."

Alex closes his eyes. Gives George a squeeze around his middle. Kisses the back of his ear and feels his shiver. "Now that's a line," he whispers, and pinches at one of George's nipples. "Careful, Mr. Washington. You'll make a guy fall for you saying stuff like that." He pinches harder.

George arches back against him, humming softly. "Keep that up and the crepes will burn," he says.

"You can make another batch." Alex reaches past him to move the pan off the heat before cupping the bulge in those boxer briefs. "Exercise first. Then food."

"So healthy," George says before trailing off into a groan.

 

___________________________________

Mere days later, John sends out a group text announcing an impromptu engagement party. _He said yes!!! Drinks at our place right now!_ Alex is heading home from work when he gets it, pivots on his heel in the direction of Herc's apartment when he reads it.

He shoots off a text to George as he walks. _Want to come congratulate the happy couple with me?_

 _Meet you there_ , George replies, and Alex pockets his phone with an unsteady breath. This is it. The first time he and George will be out in public, sort of, as an item. Herc knows they're together, of course; he'd left about ten texts on Alex's phone the night of his birthday party, all of them incoherently misspelled but centered around the theme of What the Hell is Happening with You and George? Obviously Alex had to call him the next day and give him an update.

So the knowledge is out there. Can't unring that bell. But Alex is wracking his brain for ideas on how a new couple is supposed to act. Should they act the same as before? Should they hold hands? Are they supposed to kiss each other hello? What should they say if an acquaintance asks how they got together? It's kind of a long story, unfit for most people's consumption.

Alex's phone pings. It's George again: _Are you nervous? Because I'm terrified._

He smiles down at the screen, reading the message over and over again. Leave it to George to wear his heart on his sleeve and give Alex a chance to be the strong one.

 _Don't worry, we've got this_ , he texts back. Then, breaking his no-double-texting rule, adds, _I'm going to kiss you when you get there. It's going to be awesome._

Jesus Christ, that is sappy. He hits send anyway.

Mulligan and John's one-bedroom apartment is packed with people by the time Alex arrives; news travels fast. Lafayette appears when he walks in the door and presses a chilled glass of something into his hand.

"Hercules tells me you have settled down at last! I never thought I would see the day. Our Hammie has been captured by the bonds of the heart."

"Hello to you too," Alex says, and takes a dutiful sip, then stares into the glass. "Ooooh. That is good."

"My own invention. Now tell me: where is your George?" Lafayette demands.

John pops up at his side. "Do you have pet names yet? Sweetie bun? Love muffin?"

"Has he made you uninstall Grindr from your phone?" Lafayette asks. "Or is he like Adrienne, very relaxed about such things?"

"Yeah, is this completely exclusive or what?" John adds.

"I, uh—" Alex blinks. They haven't even discussed that stuff yet. Between the lazy Sunday handjobs and midday nap, time had sort of slipped away. "We didn't—"

"Hey, leave Hamilton alone." Mulligan comes up behind John to give him a hug from behind. "He's finally found himself a nice relationship and we should support him."

Alex nods gratefully. "Thank you, Herc."

"Besides," Mulligan drawls, "he'll need all the support he can get since George is making him weak in the knees." He fans himself, mimes falling over and allows John to pretend-catch him. They all share a laugh, save for Alex, who just watches their shenanigans with a put-upon roll of his eyes.

"Assholes," he mutters, but hugs them hello and congratulates John and Herc, politely views the ring on Mulligan's thick finger, listens with all his attention as John recounts the tale of the proposal, down on one knee reenactment and all. Partygoers swirl around him, talking, giggling, drinking. Adrienne puts on some music and gets a few of the women to dance in a circle.

Alex is watching from his perch on the arm of the sofa when George walks in. Their eyes don't quite meet because George is too busy looking in the wrong direction, so Alex has to wave and shout for a ridiculously long amount of time before George finally turns and sees him. He makes his way over to the sofa, eyebrow rising in challenge.

"Is that any way to say hello?" he asks.

Across the room, in the kitchen doorway, John elbows Lafayette and points at them. Alex shakes his head at everyone.

"Dork." He tips his head back, grabs George's lapel, and drags him down for a quick kiss. Lafayette starts a whoop that echoes through the little apartment as more people join in. Alex feels himself blush, which is embarrassing, but when he pulls away, the look on George's face makes up for it: a wide smile that stretches from ear to ear.

"Hello to you too," he says, and gives him another kiss. This one lasts longer. Doesn't end until Mulligan shouts at them, "Save it for your own engagement party!"

Alex breaks away then, suddenly nervous about the joke--that George might be uncomfortable with the whole idea of marriage after what he's been through. But George is laughing with the rest of them, holding his hands up in defeat.

"You win, Mulligan. Tonight's about you two." He gives Herc and John one big hug, congratulates them warmly, accepts their gentle ribbing.

Alex watches from a short distance and sips his drink. He feels warm. It's weird but nice.

"Alex? Alex Hamilton?"

He turns at the sound of his name and finds Tench Tilghman standing there looking suave as shit in his knitted tie. He has his arm around a guy Alex doesn't know, very good-looking in a tweedy, academic way.

"Hey Tench," he says. "Haven't seen you in forever."

"It's been too long." He squeezes his guy around the waist. "This is my new boyfriend, Samuel."

So Tench is finally out of the dating pool too. Alex shakes the guy's hand, goes through the usual murmured nice-to-meet-you's. George reappears with a beer at that point, and Alex braces himself for the unavoidable awkwardness.

"George," Tench says with an even nod.

"Is this the guy?" Samuel says, pointing at George like he's a museum exhibit. Alex can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"If you mean the guy who so rudely left Tench with the check at dinner a month or so ago, then yes, I'm afraid I am." George goes smoothly for the handshake, and Samuel has no choice but to take it and exchange names with him. Alex lifts an eyebrow at Tench, but he's too busy bouncing his gaze between George and Samuel.

"So you two are, what? Together?" Samuel makes a short gesture between Alex and George, almost dismissive. Alex is about to growl out a retort when George answers for him.

"That's right. Very recently, I guess you could say." George lays his hand atop of Alex's where it sits on the sofa arm, and Alex forces himself to lace their fingers together. He doesn't like this, acting under the scrutiny of two dicks he couldn't care less about. But he wants to play nice for George's sake. It's what a good boyfriend would do. He looks up with what he hopes is a sweet smile.

"Kind of weird, isn't it?" Samuel says. Sips at his drink. "You being so much older."

Alex stiffens. He can feel George's hand tighten in his but he doesn't dare look back up at him. His eyes dart to Tench, who seems to be watching the proceedings with passive interest.

"I mean, you were probably in college when Alex here was born," Samuel continues. Then, after a pause, "Or maybe you didn't go to college? I'm sorry, I sometimes forget--not everyone does."

Dead silence then. Alex itches to unleash everything he's got at this guy, but George's grip firms up even more. A reassuring touch.

George finally breaks the silence with a short chuckle. "There is an age difference, yes. But you know how it is." He gestures to Tench. "I'm sure you get all sorts of people pointing out the gap in your ages, for example. How much older are you, Sam? Nine years? Ten?"

Samuel reels back as if shot. "I'm younger than Tench by three years! Almost four!"

"Oh, are you?" George seems to consider this very carefully. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I thought you were older." He takes a swig of his beer, then says, "It must be your mature, elegant poise."

All the color drains from Samuel's face, leaving him as white as a sheet. Alex can tell it's the pain of a thirty-something being told they look like a forty-something. Tench, for his part, nudges his boyfriend toward the kitchen. "We should freshen our drinks," he mumbles. "Nice seeing you again."

Alex watches them go with wide eyes, mouth sealed in a firm line until they're out of sight. Then he turns to George and smacks him on the thigh.

"That," he breathes, "was absolutely _mercenary_."

George groans and sits himself down on the sofa below Alex's perch. He holds his beer between his knees and rests his back far back on the cushions. "Yeah, I should probably apologize."

"Are you kidding?" Alex cups George's face in his palm and turns him to meet his gaze. "I have never been as attracted to you as I am right now."

"Well, that's pretty messed up." But he's smiling, pleased with himself and with Alex.

"I know." Alex's hand finds his and laces their fingers together again. No audience this time, just for the thrill of it. "Isn't it great?"

 

___________________________________

"I can't do this," Alex says. "I'm done." He stops in the middle of the path and bends over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. His throat is raw and stings with each inhale.

George turns around, planting his feet and standing tall atop a boulder with a funny look. "I thought you said you were a great hiker."

"I lied." Alex spits off into the brush. "I mean, I used to love the outdoors when I was a kid but this?" He looks up at the mountain peak looming ahead of them. "This is ridiculous. My thighs are on fire. My face is tingling; is it supposed to be tingling?"

"Let's take a break," George says, and hops off the boulder like it's nothing. Just watching him makes Alex tired.

Aside from the exhaustion, Alex is suffering in a dozen other ways. His jeans are chafing him, his right knee is throbbing, his gym shoes are caked in thick mud, he's sweaty and overheated while somehow simultaneously shivering in the autumn breeze.

George, on the other hand, still looks like he's stepped off the cover of an L.L. Bean catalog. Alex had poked fun at his cargo shorts, flannel shirt, hiking boots, and backpack full of supplies when they'd dressed that morning, but now he realizes that George came prepared while he definitely did not.

Alex sits heavily on a low, flat rock and waves yet another buzzing insect out of his face. He holds out his hand, still gasping for breath. "Water?"

George frowns. "What happened to yours?"

Alex unclips his water bottle from his belt loop and shakes it upside down, demonstrating its emptiness. "I finished it about twenty minutes ago."

"That was supposed to last you all day," George admonishes, but still fishes his own canteen from his pack and hands it over.

Alex gulps it down greedily.

George clears his throat. "Hope you leave some for me."

With great reluctance, Alex unwraps his lips from the mouth of the canteen and passes it back to George. "Sorry, I'm just really dehydrated."

George silently digs a granola bar out of his bag and hands it over. Alex unwraps it and devours half in one huge bite. He looks around as he chews. The woods are kind of pretty, he thinks, or as pretty as something that's trying to kill him can be. The trees are just starting to turn yellow and gold and red, the underbrush is rustling with unseen animals. There's not a cloud in the sky. Birds are actually singing.

And all Alex wants is to be back in their rented car, heading home to the city and George's climate controlled condo. He thinks about it desperately while staring into the distance.

"You hate this," George sighs.

Alex turns to find him sitting on a nearby rock, a little higher than Alex's, arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't _hate_ it—"

George just looks down at him knowingly.

Alex shrugs. "Yeah, okay, I pretty much hate it." He takes another bite from the granola bar and says with his mouth full, "I'm tired and uncomfortable and I don't see what's so great about walking uphill."

George gets up and nudges Alex with the toe of his boot until he scoots over enough to allow him space to sit next to him. He's warm, pressed up against Alex's side. The backpack plops at their feet.

"Sorry I made you do this," George says with his eyes on his hands between his knees. "I thought it would be nice to get out of the city, spend the day together."

"Hey, it's something you like to do, and you've tried plenty of things _I_ like to do." The memory of George creaming his jeans in the men's room last weekend still makes him feel tingly. "It's only fair." Alex knocks his leg against George's, a companionable jostle.

George drops a kiss to the top of his head. "Well, let me know when you're ready to get going." He looks toward the mountaintop, a distant point ringed in the sun's corona. "We're probably only two hours away from the summit."

Two more hours of hiking sounds like the very definition of hell. And that's not even counting the hike back to the car. Alex drops his head to George's shoulder with a groan. "Okay, you know how I'm trying to be more honest about my feelings lately?"

"Let me guess. You're not feeling this," George deadpans.

"Would you be mad if I gave up?" Alex asks, fidgeting with the granola wrapper. "I know you had your heart set on the view from the top. But I'm just--" He makes a long fart-deflating balloon sound, lips flapping. "A big, achy loser."

"You're not a loser." George slings an arm around his shoulders and lets him lean against him. "You're just a little out of shape, that's all."

Alex pulls back with a mock gasp of anger, boggling at George's little grin. "How dare you."

"Don't get offended. Look, do you have a gym membership?" George adopts a slightly nasal voice, his patented impression of Alex. "You should really stick to a fitness routine, you know."

"Fuck off," Alex says, and tries to shove George off the rock, but of course he's not going anywhere. He just laughs at Alex's half-hearted attempt and cuddles closer.

They sit in easy silence for a few minutes, just watching the trees sway in the breeze. Alex rests his head on George's shoulder once again and enjoys the brief rest.

"I, uh, have something for you," George says out of the blue. He reaches for the backpack on the ground, dislodging Alex from his shoulder. "I was going to save it for when we reached the top, but— I mean, now is as good a time as any."

Alex watches him unzip the bag with a terrifying ball of dread building in his stomach. Is George looking for a ring? It's too soon, they've only been dating for nine weeks, they—

George pulls out a bottle of wine from an insulated pack, and Alex breathes a sigh of relief. Then he takes a closer look at the label. "Is that—?"

George nods. "The bottle you sent to my house. Seems like forever ago, right? I told you we should share it. So I saved it." He keeps taking things out of his backpack like it's a damn Mary Poppins bit: a corkscrew, two paper cups, a small gingham cloth in checked red and white that he spreads on the ground.

Alex watches with growing fondness in his chest. If George were to pull out a ring after all this— Well, it would still be insane, but the thought isn't as scary as it was a moment ago. He accepts his cup of white wine and touches the rim of it to George's. Paper doesn't clink, but they don't mind. They sip and sit and watch the birds.

"This is really nice," he says, and lays his head back on George's shoulder. "Thank you."

George's laugh rumbles through his side. "Told you hiking was fun."

As dehydrated as he is, Alex can feel just the little bit of wine going straight to his head, mellowing him considerably. He considers refusing the refill that George offers but, damn, if he can't let his guard down now, when can he? He lets George pour out another measure for the both of them. That's when he notices that George's hand is shaking. Just a bit, but definitely shaking.

He raises a brow. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Nerves, I guess." George stuffs the cork back into the mouth of the bottle and sets it on the checked cloth, making sure it isn't about to tip over on the uneven ground before he lets go. He licks his lips, takes a drink of his wine, meets Alex's eyes. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

Well, if it's a ring, Alex is ready. It'll just have to be a long engagement. Like, five years. Hell, maybe four. He's already deleted Grindr off his phone; he's basically three steps away from marriage as far as he can tell.

He gives George his best reassuring smile. "It's just me. You don't need to be nervous. Go ahead, let it out."

George's fingers play with his cup, rotating it around and around. "I've been texting with my step-daughter, Patty, off and on for the last few days," he says. "She's going to be in town next week, visiting with friends. She wants to meet me for dinner."

"Wha—? Really? That's great news." Alex's heart feels like it's rising in his chest. He knows how much this must mean to George, to finally break the radio silence.

"It is," George agrees, eyebrows high. "But, ah, her mother's already told Patty that I have a boyfriend. After the funeral, actually. And in her texts Patty said she would...like to meet you."

"Me?" Alex blinks.

"Yeah." George shrugs. "You can come to dinner if you'd like. You don't have to. I know it's a little soon— I tried to explain we've only been dating for a couple of months but—"

"I'll be there," Alex says.

George stops mid-word. "You will?"

"Of course." He glances into his paper cup, swallows down the rest of his wine. It's good. Crisp and tart. "With bells on."

George's eyes are doing that thing where they go gooey, like Alex is the most amazing thing he's ever seen. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," Alex says. His head buzzes pleasantly. The wine really is good. "This is the kind of stuff you do for someone you love." He freezes, cup lifted halfway to his mouth, as he realizes what he's just said.

He'd been waiting to say the L-word out loud. So far it's just something he'd thought to himself in the moments where he watched George fall asleep on the couch while they watched Netflix, or in the mornings when they showered together, or the second that George's eyes found him in a crowd. It's a secret he's been keeping for himself: _I think I love this guy._ Waiting for the right moment to tell George.

Too late now.

He slides his eyes over to gauge George's reaction. George is staring at him, lips parted, cup dangling forgotten from his fingers.

"Alexander?" he breathes. "Do you love me?"

No sense pretending now. "Yeah," Alex says. Leans a little closer. "Is that—?"

His cup of wine is plucked from his hand before he can protest. George sets it and his own on the ground, then lays his hands on Alex, cupping his face in his palms. Kisses him for a long, lingering moment.

"...okay?" Alex finishes when they finally break for air.

"It's more than okay," George says, and kisses him again. "You never— You're always so careful not to use that word."

"Sorry." He means it, too. If he'd known George was paying such close attention, noticing the way he danced around the subject— If he'd made George doubt for even a moment—

George shakes his head. "It's all right. You know I love you too, don't you?"

Alex makes a small sound, embarrassing, helpless. Surges forward to kiss George again. He'd known, sure, but hearing the words, all the right words in the right order, that's something different.

The kiss deepens to the point where Alex isn't sure he can stop. His hand finds its way to the crotch of George's cargo shorts, squeezing at the thick erection there. George groans out a curse and pulls away from Alex's mouth, panting.

"We can't. Not on the trail," he says. "Someone might see."

"We haven't seen another human since we turned off the road." Alex licks a stripe up his neck where his pulse hammers. "Come on, I know there's an exhibitionist streak somewhere in there."

George rolls his eyes heavenward as if seeking guidance, or maybe forgiveness. "Okay, because I love you: compromise?" He tips his chin toward the trees. "Get off the path and find some cover?"

"Now we're talking."

Alex goes from sitting on that rock to standing in the middle of the forest with his back against a papery tree trunk in what seems like no time at all. Despite the pain in his blistered feet, the discomfort of his sweaty clothing, all of it, he's content to lean back against the tree and let George devour him with kisses. When George drops to his knees in the dirt, Alex has to stifle his moan.

"You don't have to—" Alex tries to say, but George is already working at the button of his jeans.

"Want to." George unzips him and pulls out his hard cock, already beading wetness at the tip. "Really, really want to."

It would be fair to say that George has come a long way since his first tentative attempt at oral, and Alex is very pleased with his progress. He's still a bit of a drooler, and his technique is not as refined as it is enthusiastic, but Alex has grown to prefer it. He lays a hand on the back of George's head, tickled by the feeling of the short, bristly hairs there, as he guides him into a steady rhythm.

"God, you're so good to me," he sighs. George whimpers, and it vibrates all the way to the root of his cock. Alex smirks; his dirty talk has also changed, molded itself into something that gets George hot every time. He stares down at the head bobbing over his dick. "Look at you, making love to me with that mouth. Taking care of me. Want to swallow every bit, don't you?"

George pulls off slowly, leaving a thread of spittle connecting his lower lip with the head of Alex's dick. It snaps as he speaks: "Actually…." His grin grows across his face even as he looks down shyly at the forest floor.

Alex nudges him in the shoulder with a knee. "What are you thinking?"

George looks up at him through his eyelashes. That's Alex's move, damn it. He's a fast learner. "I'm thinking," he says slowly, "you should come on my face." He nuzzles his cheek against Alex's cock, tongue darting out for just a short lick.

Alex nearly loses it right there. "Yeah? You want that?"

"Oh, I've wanted it for a long time now," George says, and goes back to work, blowing Alex with a purpose. The sound of another zipper reaches Alex's ears, and he cranes his head to the side to see George with his cock out, jerking himself off while he sucks off Alex.

"Well, who am I to deny you?" Alex's eyes slip closed as he thunks his head back against the tree trunk. "Damn, whatever you need, you deserve it. Sucking me so good. Going to get yourself a big load." Both hands on George's head now, pressing him down, down, down and George loving every minute of it if the noises he's making are any indication.

George places the hand he's not using to jack off right on Alex's hip and actually _drags_ him forward. Like he wants to stuff every last inch of Alex's cock into his mouth. Alex obliges him, pumps his hips little by little until he's outright fucking George's face. The filthy sound of George's hand speeds up, gets louder.

"You love this," Alex says softly. "And I love you."

That's enough to tip George over the edge, apparently. He moans low around Alex's dick and spills into the dirt and dried leaves. A neat white puddle forms between Alex's sneakers. The sight sets a fire in his belly, and he thrusts even faster into George's willing mouth.

"Fuck, I'm so close—" is all Alex gets out before George pulls away, upturned face glowing with happiness, slick mouth open and waiting for him.

Half of his come lands on George's tongue, and the rest shoots out across his cheek. A few drops cling to his eyelashes, dripping messily when he blinks. They remain still for a moment, trying to catch their breath. Alex enjoys the view. Uses his thumb to wipe away some of the come before it gets in George's eye.

"Now that's gorgeous," he says. "Is it everything you hoped for?"

George blinks again. Sits back on his heels. "It's sticky," he finally says. A grin. "But I love it."

Some of the precious canteen water and George's bandana are sacrificed in the clean-up effort. Alex insists on wiping the come off George's cheek himself, careful not to miss any. When he at last helps George back onto his feet, they're both wobbly, leaning into each other and the tree. Arms wrapped around each other. Laughing under their breath. Trading lazy kisses on whatever skin they can reach.

"We should head back," George says after awhile.

"Yeah." Alex shoulders the pack this time. "Let's go home."

They walk down the mountain hand-in-hand, a cozy pair, the only people as far as the eye can see.

 

 

 

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this "coming out late in life AU" ride with me. You can check out all my BTLN inspo on my [tumblr tag](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/tagged/better-late-verse). Thanks to poose for pre-reading and telling me important stuff. And the whole gang for being A+. I love y'all.


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